


lovers entwined

by aulishe



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greek Religion & Lore Fusion, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 58,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25841710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aulishe/pseuds/aulishe
Summary: He is ceaseless.Some will say he is a beast, who cares for none but power and glory, who uses his gift of the gods for the rule of the world. Some will call him a hero, who writes and writes until the end of time, who uses his prose and poetry to gift the mere mortals. Some will praise him as a god, whose manipulation of words fool even the wisest of souls, whose wit lies behind his soulful words.But he is only a lover who has lost the half of his soul.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Comments: 32
Kudos: 40





	1. i am a man with a heart that offends

**Author's Note:**

> a re-upload bc some idiot accidentally deleted their work and and that idiot is me :]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Away from the crowd’s sneaking eyes, John is never the confident, self-assured prince that his kingdom is used to. Breaking away from his counterpart, he shrinks back into an insecure, troubled boy who seeks nothing more but for his mother’s long-gone warmth and embrace.

“Are you not at all suspicious of our father?”

John frowns at his sister, catching her eye through the mirror as he gently plaits her hair. His sister, Mary Eleanor, raises her brows in question while John merely drops his gaze and focuses to style his sister’s thick mane (quite uncontrollable, said so her maids). She rolls her eyes and asks the question once more. This time, in a more desperate manner.

John answers her repeated question in a tired voice, “Why shall I be, Polly?”

Mary Eleanor, nicknamed Polly, groans at her brother’s seeming obliviousness and turns to face him, his grip on her hair losing.

John miserably watches his unfinished plait on Polly’s mane fade back into the messy, thick mess that he’s tried too hard to tame. He crosses his arms and scowls at her.

“What is the matter with you today, Mary Eleanor?” he spits out, “You are still to be painted by Monsieur Morin. Almost have I tamed your untamable mane but you interrupt me in doing so. What is it that bothers you, my dear sister?”

Polly sighs and slumps back into her seat, “Jacky, you have not yet been courted and I am being so! I am younger than you by whole six years, dearest Jacky Laurens.”

“Are you boasting, Polly?” says John, restarting the plait, “You know, no noble will want a lady too full of herself. I advise you to humble yourself, Polly.”

“I am not boasting, John!” Polly yells, attempting to hit John but embarrassingly misses, “I am merely stating facts. You are now twenty, John, but you haven’t yourself any suitors. You are the second eldest of us and you’ve not married yet.”

John flushes in embarrassment and glares at his sister, ashamed of all the words Polly spewed out of her mouth. “I am sure you’ve made your point, Mary Eleanor.”

While John’s head is hung low, red and shamed, as he styles his sister’s hair, Polly scrambles for an apology.

“Jacky!” she gasps when she catches sight of John’s reddened cheeks, “No, Jacky, you misunderstand.”

Polly says it soothingly, almost in a motherly tone, but John is yet to be soothed. He stays silent and lets his sister finish her statement.

“I am not trying to insult you,” Polly mutters in an apologetic manner, guilt spilling from her eyes, “But I am worried for you, Jacky. Father… expressed his concerns to us – about you – yesterday. He is thinking to go to the Oracle of Delphi to know more of your, erm, future.”

John freezes, his face paling. “Polly, no!” he gasps, “Tell me you are kidding!”

“I am truly sorry, Jacky,” Polly sends him a sympathetic look but that does not lull his growing panic, “But, if it comforts you, well, Harry, Patsy and I have tried our hardest to convince him not to. Despite our hard efforts, Jacky, his decision is set in stone.”

John stares at her in shock, trying to comprehend what was said to him.

He’s heard of tales of those who go to the Oracle of Delphi. Truly, the prophecies are not less from the truth but, in rhymes and tunes, sometimes it is easily misunderstood by the receiver of the prophecy. John would prefer to live the fate – that the Fates has planned for him – rather than have knowledge of what is coming next. Truth to be told, the latter seems much more terrifying.

Polly shocks him out of his reverie with a gentle pull.

“Jacky, you alright?” John clears his throat and, in a haste, ties the end of Polly’s plait with a lace ribbon, “Hey, dear brother, you can talk to me. If it bothers you as much as I think it does, I shall try harder to convince our father that it is not wise to go to the Oracle.”

John shakes his head, stepping away from his sister and taking a seat on the plush cushions, his expression still dazed.

Polly follows, sitting next to her brother. “Jacky,” she starts, resting her hand on John’s shoulder, “What are you thinking? Tell me. I am here to help, my dear brother.”

John sighs and leans against the wall. “Polly, my dearest sister, I am sure you have heard of the tales of those who traveled to the Oracle,” his sister nods in response, “Well, then, that is what I fear. What if our father orders me to drown myself in sea because he mistranslates the Oracle’s prophecy? What, then?”

Polly stares at him peculiarly, “That seems oddly specific. Do you have a fear of the sea, Jacky?”

John grumbles and playfully pinches his sister’s cheek, “That is not the point, Polly!”

“Alright, alright,” she pinches John back, to which he reacts to with a yelp, “Ah, such a drama queen, you are, John. But I am sure our father will consult, at least, professionals in translating the prophecy. You are his eldest son. Surely, he will not throw you away just like that.”

John bites back a sigh and forces a smile. _How could you know he will not throw me away just like that?_

“Aye, worry no more, Jacky,” Polly states, “Have trust in father. He is not one to make rash decisions, you know that.”

John nods, though still unconvinced. “When is father leaving for Greece?”

Polly shrugs, biting her nails and John immediately swats her fingertips from her mouth. “He’s never told us,” she says, “But I’ll tell you once he does. If he feels like it, maybe he will tell it to you first before us. This does directly concern you, after all.”

“Hopefully, he does,” John says weakly, “Do you think it would be wise for me to accompany my father? It is _my_ future he is seeking, anyways.”

As Polly opens her mouth to respond, the door opens, startling Polly and John out of their conversation. Their maid, Belle, stands in the doorway and apologizes for the disruption of their discussion.

“Monsieur Morin has arrived, master and mistress,” Belle says, waiting for Polly.

Polly stands up from the cushions and waves a goodbye to John. “Do not do anything irrational, my dear brother,” she says before walking out the doorway, leaving John to his thoughts.

Belle closes the door and John is left alone in the room.

Why must no one court him, anyways? John is a fine man as he’s been told by countless people. Perhaps, yes, he is a little too skinny and a little too tall, so unlike the broad-shouldered, muscular and fit princes he has met in this lifetime. Though that matters not for his face is almost comparable to Psyche’s beauty, said his mother to him one night. Since then, since her passing, he has clung unto her words and used them as anchors to avert himself from falling deep into the endless sea of hatred.

Away from the crowd’s sneaking eyes, John is never the confident, self-assured prince that his kingdom is used to. Breaking away from his counterpart, he shrinks back into an insecure, troubled boy who seeks nothing more but for his mother’s long-gone warmth and embrace. His mother was the anchor that kept him ashore. Now, he has nothing to cling to but faded memories of her.

_And those memories are fading slowly._

He wipes away the droplet of tear that unnoticedly has fallen from his eyes. John shakes his head, standing up from the cushions and clearing away the wrinkles on his clothes as he does so.

He leaves the room hurriedly, eager to feel the soft wind of the sea against his face. John closes the door, walking outside the palace and to the sea.

He kicks off his shoes and runs to the shore, elated when he feels the faint sand beneath his feet. He thinks, at that moment, he has reached Nirvana itself when he hears only the distant sounds of the waves sneaking up the shore.

_And his mother’s tender voice whispering in his ear._

**x**

The king and his court are gathered into a round table, just steps away from the beach.

King Henry sits in an enlarged, gold throne, embellished with colorful jewels and silk furs. His face is hardened from dealing with a kingdom. His eyes are tired and his heart is as exhausted. He is merely a shadow of the king the crowds and courts used to praise.

He is fading.

“It is not a wonder that no one is willing to court the Prince John,” speaks Gerald Arnolds, stealing the King’s attention at the ill words to his son, “He is a bit… mad.”

When Arnolds sees the spark of anger that flashes in the king’s eyes, he is quick to amend his statement.

“No, your Majesty!” he says, “I do not mean any offense in saying that. Prince John is a fine prince, yes, that, he is. I am sure he, too, will make a fine husband! Yes, yes, quite sure, I am! Unknown to any of you, I actually –”

A noble – that the king does not care enough for to remember his name – rolls his eyes and steps in, cutting off Arnolds’ incessant babbling (which the king is tremendously grateful for). He is in no mood to reprimand any of the nobles who will only manage to deflect his statements with quick-witted (though respectful) comebacks.

“Arnolds, no one is asking you to praise the prince as how you praise your gods,” the same noble speaks, his hand resting on his temple as he does so, “We just need a decision. If the king is to leave for Delphi tomorrow morning, well, we all know who will take the lead of the court for the short amount of time. We are now trying to decide whether it is worth it for the king to leave his duties be for his son.”

“Do not speak to me as if I am a mere babe,” retorts Arnolds, earning a glare from the noble.

“Then, do not act like one.”

Silence envelops between the group and the king can only sigh in frustration, preferring not to use his voice for such trivial matters.

“Both of you, behave,” this time, a new voice speaks and the king decides he does not recognize this noble, “We are in front of the Majesty. It is not the time for any of your petty quarrels with one another. Act as a noble is ought to act in front of the king.”

Silence once more. The king realizes he does not mind it.

While the nobles try to sort themselves out, King Henry stares out, a familiar warmth seeping into his chest when he sees John settling himself down on the sand, close enough for the waves to reach the tips of his toes. A contented smile is plastered unto his son’s face and only now does the king realize he hasn’t seen his son smile as he is smiling for a long, long time.

 _Not until Eleanor’s death._ My _Eleanor._

“…your Majesty?”

He is broken out of his trance, his presence now brought back to the nobles. Henry closes his eyes in frustration and wishes them all to disappear once he opens them.

He opens his eyes and feels a wave of disappointment hit him when they are still there, solid and standing. _Dear Zeus, give me the strength._

“As I was saying, your Majesty,” and once they have caught his attention, they will start babbling like parrots once more, “Though I believe any matters concerning your children is of significance, but, sire, you simply cannot leave your kingdom for your son’s relationship problems.”

“Who says I cannot?” and, for the first time he speaks today, his voice is rough from misuse, “I am the king. I shall do what I intend to do.”

“Yes, sire, you are the king,” Henry frowns, “And, as you are king, you have duties to your kingdom that you cannot leave be.”

“I am not leaving any of duties be,” the king sharply says, the venom clear in his voice, “I am merely fulfilling my duty to my son.”

“But, sire –”

“I will not force any man or woman to court the Prince John,” King Henry says in finality, “That will cause an upheaval in court which I would rather not deal with. I’ve enough to deal. Now, if you disprove of me traveling to gain insight of my son’s future, then, I do not care much of any of your opinions.”

The court remains silent and all he can hear is his ragged breathing.

“I have left South Carolina for much less,” the court is still quiet, “I shall not let any of you reprieve me of my duties to my son. We all know who shall lead once I leave and we all know that they are more than enough to lead a country as mine. I see not an ounce of a problem in what I am about to pursue, gentlemen.”

And yet, almost miraculously, the court bites back their tongue and hold in their words.

“Now, that is settled,” the king abruptly rises up from his throne, “I shall depart. Good day to all, nobles.”

He struggles to stifle his laugh when he hears, from afar, the court burst into an uproar.

**x**

When Artemis’ moon rises from its confines, the sea rises along. Its waves push as the moon pulls; a dance of eternity. A shimmering blue that fades into the black sky, constellations painted in the once-blank canvas of Kronos. John is still at sea and now he is sure that he is soaked.

He seats far too close to the sea that the waves softly brush against his face. His clothes are damp and John finds himself overlooking that for the tranquility that only the ocean can bring to his mind. Only now can he sit peacefully, deeply engrossed in the sand, with the absence of his bruising thoughts. Only his mother’s voice and the ocean’s symphony accompany him. The lack of his wounding thinking lets him breathe. His mind makes him feel suffocated at times.

He notices the beauty of Artemis’ moon. It is lustrous and shining. Its light is not as blinding as the Apollo’s. The moon of the hunter goddess is a white rose in the dark canvas of the titan of the sky, the stars along are fireflies that guide the wonderers.

John inhales the scent of the sea.

He stands up and walks closer to the sea, his heart pounding. As he feels his feet sink into the waters, John feels an excitement rise to his chest.

Deeper and deeper he went.

With every step he took to the sea, he hears his mother’s gentle yet stern _no_ ’s and, for once in his life, he doesn’t listen to his anchor.

Instead, he sinks deeper. Deeper until his mouth reaches the waters.

He takes a deep breath and –

“ _JOHN_!”

The sudden intrusion makes John jump out of shock. He rises from the ocean and faces the intruder of a moment once peaceful. There, stand his siblings, all three of them: Harry, Patsy and Polly. Their faces are a mix of horror and shock that John almost feels regretful. With promises of coming back, John separates himself from the grasp of the ocean and walks to the shore.

Patsy hurries to him and engulfs him in a hug. John tries to force his way out of her grip in fear of ruining her new gown (as it looks like).

Patsy only tightens her arms around him. John gives in.

They lay like that for a while, each in each other’s arms under the company of the night sky and the stars. Once Patsy lets go, she, almost instinctually, knacks John on the head.

“OW!” John shrieks, his hand massaging his probably-bruised head, “What is it that made you do that, Patsy? That hurt too much that I am sure I have lost half my brain by now.”

It seems Patsy is not in a mood for jokes.

“If you did not want to get hit –” and, once more, he gets hit on the head, “– then, perhaps, you should have not tried to drown yourself at sea, John Laurens!”

“I… I was not trying to drown myself,” but, even in his ears, his protest is weak.

Harry intervenes before Patsy could think about hitting him once again (his head had enough blows).

“Patsy, calm yourself down, you heathen,” Harry turns to John, “And you, what were you thinking trying to kill yourself? Please tell me it is not because of father’s decision to go to the Oracle. If it is, Jack, we swear –” he points to himself, then Patsy and Polly, “– that we will convince him not to. We will even threaten him with breaking marriage with our spouses for your own sake.”

“You wouldn’t!” John says back, biting down a gasp. A royal breaking marriage with their courter is much more scandalous than his death at sea. To think about it, his sounds even quite poetic.

“Oh, you know we would, Jacky,” Polly speaks, for the first time in the evening. John looks at Polly and a silent apology is exchanged between them, their faces contorted in guilt. “I do not know what brought yourself to do that. I thought I already told you that I, Patsy and Harry shall do everything in our power to convince father to abandon his trip to the Oracle if it bothers you _that_ much.”

John looks at each of his siblings, a nagging feeling tugging his heart. Perhaps, shame; in knowing that his siblings would risk their lives of luxury for his sorry self.

Harry is taller now. He has grown a beard and looks, in the kindest way intended, ten years older in his age. His hair is outgrown and now reaches the middle of his back. He is still handsome, nonetheless.

Patsy is as short as he remembers her to be. She is more graceful in her movement and her hair is styled up into an intricate mess of braids that John prefers not to try on Polly’s hair. She is beautiful.

And Polly, his dearest little sister. She stands tall and proud. Her hair is free from his plait and, for that, John is glad. Polly always looks better when her hair is cascading down on her back.

“Please, I beg you all not to,” he says earnestly, “Truly and without fibs, I was not attempting to kill myself. I simply was trying to enjoy a peaceful, goodnight swim.”

Patsy snorts at that, her eyebrow raised in judgment as she scans his clothes. “Mhm, a goodnight swim in that attire,” John crosses his arms and looks away, “Jacky, my dear, you are not fooling one soul tonight. We all know what you tried to do, Jacky.”

“But we can forget it happened if you swear us your heart that you will never try to do that once more,” Harry says, trying to reach a point of compromise, “We care about you, Jack. More than we ought to show. My brother, I hope you know.”

The nagging feeling shifts into an explosion of warmth that spreads across his chest. He feels himself smile as his brother pulls him into a one-armed hug. Harry pulls away as quickly as he does. They both grin at each other.

“Boys, honestly,” Patsy speaks up, wrapping her arms around the two, “Always so reserved of touching! Ach, I do not get what is the fuss all about!”

“Of course, so expected of Martha Laurens!” Polly exclaims dramatically, shifting their attention to her, “Neglecting the one she shares organs with! Patsy, I feel betrayed.”

Polly pouts. Harry rolls his eyes and pulls his sister to his side.

“You are the silliest woman I’ve ever come across, Polly.”

They walk back to the palace, arms wrapped around each other, with voiceless promises hanging in the air, as they bask in the moments of today, preparing themselves for the unplanned future.

**x**


	2. to be a good man for someone else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the bountiful agora that sits in the center of every Greek polis and the acropolis forming the hub of every Grecian city, King Henry feels his breath taken away by the magnificence of Greece.

“Are you certain you do not wish for me to come along with you, father?”

John stands in front of his father – who is already mounted on his horse. He wishes his father would somehow change his mind and bring John along with him. It is _his_ future that his father seeks for, after all.

King Henry looks at him and holds his gaze as he speaks, “Son, have I not made it clear that I desire for not one but my royal guide to accompany me to this trip?”

John looks down to his feet, feeling an already-ugly frown already etching his face.

“But it is his fate that you try to find out, my father,” Patsy speaks next to him, her hands crossed as she does so, “I do not see what is the harm of bringing John along to your trip at the Oracle if it is his fate that you are after. I think it would even be much wiser for John to come along, do you not?”

John looks up and feels triumphant when his father merely stares at them, his mouth slack of words for response. He can hear Polly and Harry snickering behind him – his hideous frown alters to a wide grin.

“We have already discussed this last evening, have we not?” King Henry’s tone is impatient, “I will not allow any of you four to delay my trip further. I shall depart from my kingdom now.”

His words – that of the king – always meant finality.

John watches helplessly when his father and his guide ride off to their ship to Greece. Patsy wraps an arm around John’s shoulders, trying to offer comfort to her brother.

John smiles at Patsy, genuine but forced. “Who, honestly, was I to think that he would change his mind?”

“Ah, do not fool yourself, Jacky,” Harry steps closer to him then, “We all thought he would change his mind after our… passionate speech yesterday.”

“If passionate means threatening our father,” John snorts, “I am sure that you three have angered father over your so-called ‘passionate’ speech.”

“We did what we ought to do, Jacky,” retorts Polly behind them, “Do not fault us for doing so.”

John turns around to face his sister, an apology already hanging from his mouth.

“Aye, Polly, do not be bitter,” Patsy says, turning as well, “I am sure Sir Charles Pinckney likes his ladies sweet and tempered. You are neither of the two.”

“Patsy, do not be hard on our sister,” Harry walks to Polly and ruffles her hair, “She may be being courted but, really, she is still a child so. Do not force your… marital values on her.”

Polly is quick to shove his brother’s hands off her mane, “Harry! I’ve just sorted my hair!”

“Polly, and though I mean this in no offense, you’ve barely even combed your hair,” remarks John, earning a hit from Polly which he ignores as he continues his to state his opinion, “The most you’ve done in sorting your hair is – placing a flower crown atop it.”

“Oh, John Laurens, you are not only insulting me,” at the mention of his full name, John is quick to step away from his sister, “But you are, as well, insulting my capabilities in managing my beautiful and thick and wondrous hair!”

John runs from her as Polly trails after him. Harry watches in amusement while Patsy only sighs.

“You two are not children,” Patsy calls out as they run in circles, “Halt your childish antics. You two are grown royals who –”

Patsy’s commentary is cut off as Harry unties her one-strand braid.

“Henry Junior, give me back my ribbon, you!” Patsy glowers.

Harry, in a childlike manner, sticks his tongue out and joins John in running away from the ruffians that are their so-called sisters.

“Chase for it, Martha Ramsay!”

Patsy, given no choice but to do it, joins in with her sister. “Oh, that I will, you rascal of a prince!”

The siblings run after each other around the royal garden, not minding the flowerbeds that they unintentionally step over.

And, while they are caught in a chase, a servant – meant to call her highnesses – stands frozen in the palace doors, her jaw-slacked as she stares at the four royals – who are, at best, calm and composed – now chasing each other like a pack of wolves.

Harry notices the servant first and, as he does so, he freezes in his steps and stares awkwardly, looking like a child who stole a cookie.

Patsy, in jubilance, steals away her ribbon from her brother and lets out an embarrassingly loud harrumph, her hair flying in all directions from her run. “I’ve got you now, you barbaric prince!”

Harry clears his throat, hopefully loudly enough for the other two to her, and gestures to the servant standing in front of them. Patsy, assuming the servant has witnessed all, turns red in the face and splutters to comb her unruly hair.

The other two are still running after each other, oblivious still to the servant. Harry clears his throat once more, more vehemently than the last.

The two freezes in their track, seeming to take sight of the servant.

A comedic scene – meant for the theatre than anything else – plays in the royal gardens of South Carolina as the four royals stand rigid on the ground in embarrassment while a servant merely stares at them, perhaps of shock or judgment. The four of them hope it is neither.

Patsy is the first to speak. “Did you need anything?”

At the voice of the princess, the servant is swift in response.

“Yes, your Majesties, lunch is to be served,” the servant says, bowing respectfully, “Would you prefer it to be served here, your highnesses?”

Though the servant meant it as an honest question, the siblings’ cheeks color.

“No need of that,” John says, trying to save what is left of his dignity, “We shall follow closely.”

At their dismissal, the servant runs back to the palace, leaving the embarrassed siblings be.

“Ach, it is all because of you, John, that we are caught in such an undignified manner!” Patsy is first to shout, “Now, they see _me_ , their princess and spouse of David Ramsay, as a lawless beast!”

“Dear gods, you adore to magnify the minimum, do you not, Patsy?” John quips, “If you are to blame anyone for your state, it is Harry. It is he who forced you to a chase.”

“And messed your hair,” Polly adds.

Harry raises his hands in surrender when Patsy glowers at him. “It is Polly who started chasing John!”

“Well, we did not force any of you to join us!”

The siblings glare at each other, their eyes of fire.

John is the first to crack. “Let us stop playing the blame game,” he says, “Lunch is prepared. We should fix ourselves and head back to the palace.”

Polly grumbles in agreement. They both walk to the palace, Harry and Patsy silently trailing after them.

Serenity hangs in the air, only the chirping of birds is heard.

“Your hair is comparable to a lion’s mane, I thought you ought to know.”

The sound of a smack echoes throughout the garden.

**x**

“Yes, I’ve seen it!”

The servants around her gasp in wonder, their eyes wide and their jaws slack.

“You all should have seen Princess Martha’s hair,” she whispers excitedly, “It is too appealing on her! She is beautiful with her hair down! Though, I’ve to admit, she did look the littlest disheveled… Nonetheless, she looked as gorgeous as she did in her wedding.”

“Oh, how I wish I’ve seen her for myself,” another maid pipes, sighing, “I admit, too, that our princess is dazzling in her nest of braids but, and I am sure everyone thinks this, she is the most beauteous when her hair is free of any ribbons and lace!”

“Indeed, she does!” a cook joins their hushed conversation, “I do not know why she prefers it to be locked in tight braids. Rather, it should be Princess Mary Eleanor who should tighten her hair in braids.”

“Oh, do not blame our youngest princess for her genes! She is still beautiful so!”

“Have you seen the princes?” another cook asks excitedly, forgetting their duty to hear more of the royal siblings’ beauty.

“Oh, yes, dear Zeus, yes!” the maid screeches eagerly, “They are sweaty from their chase! They all look so beautiful, the lot of them!”

“How did the Prince Henry look like?”

“Handsome! Too handsome, he is!”

The maids and cooks alike squeal girlishly.

“And the Prince John?”

The servants halt their chatter as the four royals walk in the dining hall. Their heads are held up high, as royals ought to do, and walk in the graceful manner; and what the servant witnessed only moments ago is too in contrast to what she is witnessing now.

The princes still sport their attire from a while ago yet they are more composed, more princely rather than frivolous. The princess are clothed in silk dresses that hang barely above their knees; the Princess Martha in an elegant, pastel dress that spins as she walks while the Princess Mary Eleanor in a dark maroon frock that hug her body too tightly to be graceful. Nonetheless, both princes and princesses look as dignified as they should.

They take their seat and the servants hurry to serve them.

**x**

“Oh, I am embarrassed too much!” Patsy wails the second she dismisses the servants, “I feel as though they judge me for every step! I am no longer noble in their eyes!”

Polly rolls her eyes and takes a bite of her roasted salmon.

“Aye, Patsy,” Harry wipes his mouth with a cloth after sipping his drink of wine, “You are too comical in your words and actions. Perhaps, you are better suited in the theatre, is she not, Jack?”

“Uh-uh,” John tuts, taking a handful of his corn, “I do not dare to be involved. Patsy will simply twist my words and feel worse which I do not wish for her so.”

“Thank you, Jacky,” Patsy says, “A man who understands his own sister.”

“Aye, Patsy, you do none but wound your brother!” Harry, in his melodrama, clutches his chest as if bruised.

“Perhaps it is you who is better suited in the theatre,” Polly quips, raising her brow at Harry, “Frankly, both of you are too theatrical for a prince and prince. Only Jacky and I are sane.”

Harry and Patsy glower at Polly. John groans tiredly.

“May we just eat in peace?” John asks, exhausted of his siblings’ banter, “I think I prefer to eat my salmon without the talk of the theatre.”

The siblings come to a hush. The sounds of clinking metal and faint chewing are heard throughout the dining hall, no words conversed, and, for once, John lets himself breathe a sigh of relief.

But, he should have known, his siblings are incapable of drowning in silence for longer than two minutes.

“Where do you think father is at now?” Polly breaks the silence, curiously eyeing John, “Hopefully, he had just boarded the ship.”

Patsy, noticing the distress in John’s eyes, comes to his relief, “If his ship has already sailed, you need to worry not, Jacky.”

She smiles at John, continuing her statement, “We all know that America is too far from Greece to reach a day’s travel.”

“Indeed,” Harry speaks, for once, agreeing with Patsy, “It might take him a month or so. You never know the ocean’s mind.”

When John is still silent, Polly meets his eyes kindly and takes his hand from across the table. “We speak of nothing but the truth, Jacky.”

“I know you all do,” he says finally, his heart warming at his siblings’ endless concern for him, “But I am certain our father has sacrificed to the gods to ensure his travel’s pace. We all know father does not enjoy lengthy travels.”

“May that be so,” Patsy says, “It will take time for father to reach Mt. Parnassus.”

 _No,_ John says in his mind, _it will not. Father has himself a guide and it will only take him a few days’ time. Soon, he will grace this country with his presence once more._

But John shuts his mouth and beams at his siblings. Their topic of conversation moves to a lighter topic – something about frills – but John feels his heart heavy, weighting the worries of himself and his father.

**x**

King Henry finds himself regretting his decision of leaving his son alone to the palace. His ship already sails to Greece and he is lounging in his room, a book neglected in his hand, as he ponders over his son.

John, though he is a logical man, is flighty and, perhaps, Henry should have taken more precaution to his idea. He knows his son will never abandon his kingdom and his siblings but, if ever provoked and with enough intention, he can fly away without one noticing. He should have ordered… He shakes his head. If John ever desires to run away, he knows he can trust on Harry, Martha and Mary to halt him from doing so.

“You must phrase your question correctly, your Majesty,” speaks John Jay, his guide, who sits on a chair beside him, “If we do manage do just that, the Oracle might not speak in riddles as we expect her to, your highness.”

Henry hums in response. He heeds to John Jay’s advice. He cannot risk his son’s life for a misreading of the Oracle’s advice.

“How do you suggest I phrase my question, then?”

“‘ _O, the high priestess Pythia, will my son be courted as I desire for him to be so?_ ’” John Jay booms in a melodramatic tone. He clears his throat, “If your intention is to find out who shall court the Prince John, your Majesty.”

“Indeed, it is,” says King Henry, “Tell me, John Jay, why do you think no one dares to court my son?”

John Jay falters for an appropriate reaction, fearing that he will anger the easily-angered king of South Carolina. He takes a deep breath and searches for the right words in his mind.

“Well, your Majesty,” John Jay starts, trying to disregard the king’s sharp eyes, “The Prince John is comparable to Psyche, if I do say myself.”

King Henry, who never bothered himself for the history of Greeks, raises his brow in question. John Jay catches his reaction and quickly explains the myth of Psyche to the king.

“Ah,” the king says in understanding, “You are, then, saying that my son is above perfection?”

John Jay nods eagerly.

“No, I do not think so,” the king responds, “My son is far from perfect, that he is. He is fine for a prince, yes, but he is nowhere close to perfect. His flaws are obvious and he is too shy for his own.”

“Yes, but, see, that is in your eyes, your Majesty,” the king gestures for John Jay to elaborate his statement and so he continues, “But, in your kingdom’s eyes, the Prince John is a handsome prince whose body is lean, dissimilar to the bulky princes, with the right amount of muscle in the right places. His face is fine, soft and sweet, he is. His hair of curls is enjoyed by the men and women alike and his li –”

King Henry stares at John Jay in oddity, feeling uncomfortable at the graphic (and quite suggestive) description of his son’s physical appearance and… capabilities.

“Refrain from describing my son’s physicality too vividly –” John Jay’s cheeks heat up at the king’s condemnatory gaze, “– or I will think that it is you who prefers to court him.”

“Oh! Sire, no, I apologize for my incorrect phrasing of my – I assure you, your Majesty, that I do not desire to court your son! Never did I mean to speak of your son in such an ill manner, your highness. I would never –”

“Calm yourself,” King Henry says, “I know what you meant to say. Continue your assessment of my son.”

“Yes, of course, your Majesty,” with a shaky voice, John Jay continues to speak, “As I’ve said, the Prince John is beautiful but, in the kingdom’s eyes, too much for their own eyes. Rumors of the Prince John being a descendant of a god, they say Eros himself, are frequent in the neighboring kingdoms which leads me to believe that they refuse to court the Prince for his… godly beauty.”

That only confuses the king further. “So, you are saying that it is his own beauty that refrains him from being courted?”

“Yes, exactly, your Majesty,” John Jay attests.

“They courted my daughters for the same reason that they refuse to court my son?”

“Ah, no, sire,” speaks John Jay, “Your daughters are beautiful, yes, they are. But your son’s beauty is none like other. His beauty is not flawless, no, but it is godlike. It is otherworldly, different from his siblings.”

Before the King Henry could reprimand him for comparison of his children, John Jay is instantaneous to revise his wording.

“What I meant, your Majesty, is that, while your other children are beautiful in their own right, the Prince John’s pulchritude is ethereal.”

“ _He is too beautiful_ is what you are saying, then?”

John Jay nods. “Yes, sire, though your people admire him, they admire him as they admire the gods. And, when admiring gods, there comes along fear.”

“ _Fear_?” Henry asks in disbelief – for who would ever fear his gentle son?

“Yes, sire, fear that they may never be enough for your son,” John Jay almost smiles at the pride in the king’s eyes, “Even the prince and princess of New York are afraid of being lacking for the Prince John despite their father’s desire for them to court him.”

“Prince James and Princess Henrietta of New York, one of the most powerful city-states in America, fears my son?” the king asks in glee, exhilaration pumping in his veins, “My, how wonderful to know that those conceited royals fears one that is not their father and _my_ son nonetheless!”

For the rest of the day, the king lounges in his room, with his guide beside him, as they enjoy their ill speaking of the egotistical pair of royals of New York and, for once, the king revels in the presence of someone that is not his wife.

**x**

Days turn to weeks and, soon, the King steps foot in the land of Central Greece.

The poleis of the Greek lands have never failed to astound King Henry. With the bountiful agora that sits in the center of every Greek polis and the acropolis forming the hub of every Grecian city, King Henry feels his breath taken away by the magnificence of Greece.

And he would have loved to see more of the beauty of Greece but they are not here to sight-see.

They are here to hear more of the life the Fates has planned for his son. Dear gods, he hopes he has sacrificed enough goats to please the god of prophecy and poetry, Apollo, to reassure the clear augury of the Oracle of Delphi.

They ride to Mount Parnassus, just above Delphi, and, during the journey to the mountain, the king feels adrenaline rushing through his body, the thought of knowing his son’s future exciting and terrifying him at the very same time. He will do anything to secure his son’s success in marriage and in life as he did with his other children.

“Your Majesty?” John Jay calls out, reining his horse to ride next to the king, “Are you feeling unwell? If you do, we may head back, your Majesty.”

“No,” the king firmly responds, “I merely feel skittish.”

“Understandable, your Majesty.”

They ride in silence and the King feels his breath hitch the closer they get.

Their horses take a few more steps and the Oracle is clear as crystal in the king’s eyes. A veiled woman who sat on a three-legged stool.

The king and John Jay mounts off their horse, tying their reins to a tree.

John Jay places a hand on the king’s shoulder, an uneasy smile on his face. They walk to the stool and, as they find themselves before the high priestess – who is surrounded by other priestesses – and they succumb to their knees, bowing to pay respects to Pythia.

“‘O high priestess, Pythia!” the king cries out, looking at Pythia, “Will my son be courted as I hope him to be?”

“ _KING OF SOUTH CAROLINA_!” the high priestess bellows, her voice a man’s (perhaps, Apollo’s), “ _YOUR SON SHALL BE COURTED AS YOU WISH FOR HIM TO! BUT BEWARE FOR HIS SUITOR SHALL WEAR THE SKIN OF MAN BUT, INSIDE THEM, A MONSTER!_ ”

King Henry gulps, feeling terror plant itself in his heart. “W-what shall I do, high priestess?” he asks, willing his voice to stop shaking, “To avoid my son marrying that monster?”

“ _NOTHING!_ ” and terror turns to dread, “ _HE IS DESTINED TO MARRY THE MONSTER WHO, EVEN, THE GODS TREMBLE AT THE SIGHT OF THEM! DRESS HIM IN A FROCK AND, AT DAWN, HE SHALL STAND UPON A CLIFF WHERE HE SHALL MEET HIS RUIN!_ ”

Henry feels himself fearing for his son and, at this, he desperately wishes he hasn’t gone to the Oracle.

“The god, Apollo, acknowledges your sacrifices,” her voice is now of a woman, gentle like his Eleanor’s, “Remember, king Henry, you cannot stop fate.”

The king stares at the priestess and feels as if she is gauging the deepest secrets his heart tries to conceal. He ignores the hand on his shoulder.

“You may leave, Henry of South Carolina,” the high priestess speaks, “All the best wishes to you.”

Henry and John Jay stand up from the floor, dusting dirt off their pants. Henry tilts his head to the high priestess in recognition.

As they walk to their horses, none of the two attempt a conversation, the tension thick in the air. Every step that Henry takes, it is as heavy as the woes in his heart.

_Perhaps I should have listened to my dear children._

He remembers the last dinner he had with his children and, as they try to convince Henry to halt his trip, John’s eyes were still of hope. A sight he shall never see once again.

_How shall I undo this, my dear Eleanor?_

He looks down the ground, wishing that Eleanor were by his side rather than the Underworld where she must be dining with those she has lost and now found. _My dearest Eleanor, how much I miss you._

“…your Majesty?”

Henry looks up and sees his horse ready for him. With a sigh, he mounts his horse, refusing to meet John Jay’s eyes.

He reins his horse to move, not bothering to wait for his guide; his mind all of grief.

“Your highness,” John Jay quickly matches his pace, “Will you do…”

_…what the priestess has asked you to?_

“I do not have a choice,” whispers Henry, loud enough for John Jay to catch, “Trying to bypass this will only anger Apollo and the Fates and, dear gods, I think my Jack will deal with enough. I do not wish for the wrath of angry gods to ruin his life – if it is not ruined enough.”

“Do you not find it odd?” John Jay says, “They – the suitor of Prince John – desires him to wear what ladies do. Why do you think so?”

“I do not know,” Henry claims solemnly, “His suitor is a monster. Who knows what else he shall compel my Jacky to do?”

The air around him is austere, the winds who sing of grief and the flowers who dance in hopelessness, and the king feels himself start to obliterate in the hands of cruelty.

He wills himself to stand strong – for his son will need a pillar to hold on to as he will face his own ruin. He will not let himself grow weak. He shall stand strong for his children, kingdom and himself.

They do not need a weak king who falls under the enemy. He shall be brave. He shall be a pillar of hope and support for his children –

– even if being brave meant being cruel.

Fate is inevitable and Henry is prepared to meet it.

**x**


	3. the sun still shines, don't worry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her eyes are of fury and Polly does not blame her. But, in a world where there are those who tower above their kind, all mortals must learn how to control their tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Mon, mon, il est magnifique dans cette robe, n'est-ce pas, mon amour?"  
> "My, my, he looks beautiful in that dress, doesn't he, my love?"
> 
> "Ah, on dirait que notre doux ami est reveille,"  
> "Ah, it looks like our sweet friend is awake,"
> 
> "Bonjour, mon beau garçon."  
> "Hello, beautiful boy."
> 
> "Je suis vivant?"  
> "I am alive?"
> 
> "Oh, tu es mignon, mon ami,"  
> "Oh, you are cute, my friend,"
> 
> "Je peux voir pourquoi Hamilton est tombé amoureux de toi."  
> "I can see why Hamilton fell for you."

“Do you wonder what father shall come home with?”

Harry eyes him curiously, a cup of wine in his hand. He raises the cup to his lips, slowly drinking the wine, as if savoring the taste. He sets down the cup and wipes his mouth with a tablecloth, then stares at John with worry.

“Jack, you worry too much,” says Harry, quite drunkenly, “I am sure, whatever he attained from the Oracle, if it risks your life, he will not go through with it. Father is not rash.”

Harry takes another swing, “He will not risk you or your life for the rhymes and riddles of the Oracle.”

John gulps, distressfully staring at the meal prepared before him. Despite his desire to voice out his worries, the fear of burdening his brother any further overrules it so, rather, John reluctantly takes a bite of his cooked fish.

In a sudden, the spacious doors of the dining hall are burst open.

John jumps in his seat, shocked, and stares at his sisters who walk to the table with an unneeded force that he knows far too well to be good.

Harry places his cup on the table, concern taking over his features, as he watches the two princesses – with frowns plastered on their faces – take their seat.

“Are you two alright?” John asks, trying to meet their eyes.

He receives no answer. Unperturbed, John asks once more.

Polly bites her lips, perhaps in anger, and stares at John, tears welling in her eyes, threatening to spill down her cheeks. She shakes and drops her gaze, burying her face into her hands.

John’s eyes widen and rushes to his sister’s side, Harry following shortly.

He wraps his arms around his sister, whispering sweet words into her ears. As he tries to comfort Polly, Harry stares at Patsy – who merely eats her meal with her usual grace. It nerves them both.

“Have you two had a quarrel?” asks Harry, his eyebrows creasing in worry.

His question is met with silence.

Harry glares at Patsy – who, still, is yet to meet his eyes. He places both his hands on the chair, twisting it to face him.

Patsy glowers at Harry, standing up from her chair, as she prepares her leave. John, in a panic, lets go of Polly and catches Patsy’s hand.

“Patsy, please,” John pleads with desperation, “Have mercy on us both and tell us what is bothering you both.”

Patsy forces herself out of John’s grip and turns to face him, leaving John stunned.

Only now did he notice his sister’s disheveled appearance, so unlike her poised self. Her hair is pulled into a tangled mess of plaits and she is solely wearing her silk nightgown – an action she herself declared preposterous. Then, John notices the tears streaking her cheeks.

Quickly, he pulls her in an embrace.

“Please, the both of you,” he hears Harry beg from behind, “Tell us and we swear we shall do absolutely anything you ask of us to do to aid you both.”

Stillness hangs in the air like a promise of plague.

It is Polly who breaks the delicate reticence.

“Father –” John’s mind stills at the mention of the king, “– he…”

Polly does not have the strength to finish her statement. Her wails reiterate through the halls and John’s heart aches of the anguish that reflect in both his sister’s sobs.

Patsy slides off John’s embrace and shakily starts to talk, shocking John and Harry out of their trance.

“While you two spent time in the village to aid the victims of the raids,” she starts, her voice reprieved of life, “Father arrived.”

Two words – that spill from Patsy’s mouth – freezes John’s world. He feels blood rushing to his ears and his heart thrumming against his chest. He gestures for Patsy to continue, anticipating.

“He… He told us what he has achieved from the Oracle,” Patsy’s voice crack and John feels he will too, “He told us – you – your – the –”

Patsy crumples to the floor, herself shaking.

“Patsy, my beautiful sister, please, I beg you with all of me,” John’s tone is weighty, weaving in with his sisters’ weeping, “Please, I plead and beg and ask of you to, _please_ , tell me what father has told you. I shall be the calmest of myself, I swear to you.”

Patsy looks at him, her lower lip quivering as she opens her mouth to speak. “Jacky,” she whispers, only for them to hear, “Jacky, you do not, and this time _I_ beg of you to keep this to your mind, deserve your own fate.”

“What am I to face?” he tries to smile. He fails.

“You shall –” his heart races, “– stand upon a cliff at tomorrow’s dawn in a gown. There, you shall meet your own ruin. There, you shall be taken to your suitor – a hideous beast that, even, the gods themselves fear.”

He feels panic settle deep into his heart.

John takes a deep breath, pretending to not hear Harry’s gasp or Polly’s weeping and, simply, for the sake of his siblings, puts on a brave face. He smiles, though shaky, and lets out a broken laugh.

“Hopefully more on the inside rather than the outside,” he tries to joke. Expectedly, it is not met with laughter.

His heart breaks into a thousand tinier pieces when he catches sight of his siblings who, too, carry the burden of his fate.

He gulps and wills himself to stay calm (as he promised to Patsy).

“It is alright,” John tries to soothe them, “I am alright.”

The sound of the wooden chair screeching against the marble floor wounds John’s ears.

“Do not pretend you are so!” he shifts to face Polly who speaks for the first time this evening, “Do not pretend as if you are not afraid for our sakes! Do… Do not fault yourself for feeling, my dear brother. Please, let your worries out to us.”

John shakes his head. “I do not want to burden you three.”

“No,” Harry says, “If anyone must be a burden, that is us – for it is you who shall suffer this terrible fate yet it us who weep like maidens. It is us that burdens you.”

“No!” John replies in a greater force, “You are merely concerned for me and I will not fault for any of you of that.”

“Yet you fault yourself for letting yourself feel?” Patsy retorts, perhaps more harshly than she intends to.

John struggles for a comeback.

“We are not our father, Jacky,” Polly gently says, placing a hand atop his shoulders, “There is no need of you to seem unbreakable in front of us.”

And, for the first time, John lets himself free from the constraint of his father’s words. _No son of mine shall be as cowardly as you._

He falls to the floor and Patsy rushes to cradle him, resting his face on the crook of her neck, rubbing circles on his back as she listens to his labored breathing and silent cries.

“My beloved brother,” she says in a whisper, “Oh, my poor, poor, darling.”

Polly sinks down to the floor, her hand brushing his wild curls.

 _You must mend yourself._ He hears his father’s haunting voice in his mind. He shudders.

“Jacky,” Polly soothingly says, reminding him of his dearest mother, and of that, he blubbers, “There, there, my brother. Let it all out, Jacky.”

“Our father dares to travel to the Oracle and learn of our Jack’s future –” Harry angrily shouts, startling John, “– yet he does not dare to face his son! He makes his daughters say it, anyway! Where is that disgraceful coward of a king that we must call our father!”

John raises his head to frown at his brother. “Do not call the king that!” he ignores his sisters’ protests, “You will be accused of treason.”

Harry’s face softens, smiling at his little brother. He kneels down and ruffles John’s hair.

“I do not care,” says Harry, “If I shall be accused of treason for the sake of my siblings, then so be it. I speak of nothing but the truth.”

John lets a slight smile grace his lips.

Harry rises up and his expression turns to a fiercer one. “Where is he, Polly and Patsy?”

“He stays in his chamber,” Polly gulps, “But he wishes no disturbance of his rest.”

Harry snarls. “I do not care of what he wishes,” and John almost fears the cruel smirk (usually reserved for the rebels) that adorns his brother’s face, “By the end of the night, all he will be wishing for is death.”

John’s eyes widen.

“Harry! Do not be so careless of your words!” scolds Patsy.

“Do not worry, my loving siblings,” he says, his smirk shifting to a boyish grin, “I shall not slaughter him.”

“Aye, Harry Junior, you shan’t even think of slaughtering the king!”

Harry rolls his eyes and speaks a rushed _goodbye_ to his siblings before he races out of the hall.

“I thank you all,” John says to his sisters, his sobs subsiding, “You both always stand by my side as I am about to fall.”

“We shall always be here for you,” John feels his heart start to mend itself at Polly’s words, “Wherever you may be, we shall go to you if you ever need us.”

“I would never burden any of you of my –”

“Do not finish what you are to say, Jacky Laurens,” Patsy scolds him as mother ought to with a child, “You can never be a burden to us. We love you, Jacky, all of you. Your best and worst.”

“And I, too,” he speaks earnestly, staring at his sisters with adoration.

If the gods have cursed him with his father, then they have blessed him with his siblings.

**x**

“ _You_ dare go against your son’s wishes yet you do not dare to face him as you do?”

Harry struggles to keep his anger at bay as he stares at his coward of a father – who is sprawled on his wide bed, his concubines by his side. He forces the bile – that threatens to rise – down his throat. _His son is to be taken by a beast and he lies with his whores?_ Harry shuts his eyes in anger.

“Son,” Henry says in surprise, “Why are you here? Did your sisters not tell you I wished not for disturbance?”

“And did your son not tell you he wished for you to abandon your trip?” Harry lets himself smirk at Henry’s slacked jaw, “Yet here we all are.”

Henry glowers and orders his courtesans to leave the room.

Harry snorts. _Of course, Henry would never allow himself to be humiliated in front of a crowd._

“Have you only come here to disrespect me?” Henry stands from his bed and wraps his robe over himself.

“I only respect those deserving of it,” he retaliates.

“Be careful of your words, son,” Henry says, “I am still your king.”

Harry only smiles disdainfully, hatred vivid in his eyes. “You were always better a king than a father.”

Henry snarls at him and walks to him and, as he reaches Harry, clutches his throat in a tight grip, denying his son of air. “I am your father and king,” he speaks, adding more force to his son’s throat, “I, too, am your namesake. Do not speak to me as if I did not nurture you to be the man that you are now. You are here because of I and you will _not_ disrespect me.”

“G-go ahead and kill your son,” he manages to choke out, “Prove to the world how wonderful you are as a father, _Henry._ ”

It is the first time Harry calls his father by his name – and out of contempt, nonetheless. His father – he does not know if of shock or anger – lets him go and Harry resists the urge to strangle him.

Silence envelops the air around them but Harry refuses to leave – not until he witnesses his father lament.

Henry turns away from him and, with a deep sigh, starts to speak. “I cannot control Jack’s fate, my son,” his voice is delicate, unusual for a king like he, “You cannot fault me for that. Even if I did heed to Jack’s wishes, he still would face the same fate. You should thank me; you, your sisters and Jack –”

Harry does not give him the chance to complete his statement. “What shall we ever thank you for?” he whispers harshly, “For revealing us your son’s – our _brother’s_ – tragic fate? Because, to be frank, my father, I do not feel exactly grateful as you think I should b –”

“ _FOR GIVING YOU THE CHANCE TO SAY GOODBYE TO YOUR BROTHER_!” Harry quiets at that, ignoring the chair Henry throws across the room, “Without I, you nor your sisters would know of his fate and you would not grieve as you do now! Without I, fate will still happen – in a way different than this – and you will have no knowledge of it! Without I, you shall lose your brother without farewells.”

Harry does not talk still and merely stares at his feet. Henry smirks in triumph.

“Tell me, my son,” says Henry, “Would you have preferred it if I had caved in to Jack’s wishes – letting this beast take him without your knowledge?”

“No,” Harry finally says, “No, I would not –”

He tries to ignore his father’s triumphant smile.

“– but that does not make you a saint,” and he feels himself pleased when the smile disappears, “By Zeus, you have done none in your life but to make Jacky miserable. You tell him that he is not deserving to be your son. Do you know what I think, my father?”

Henry squints his eyes. “What is it do you think, my _son_?”

“It is you who is not deserving of him,” Harry spits out, “You never have and you never shall. Think all you want – that somehow you have saved him – but, and I swear this on Apollo himself, you do not deserve John! While all he tries is to please you, all you try is to tire him.”

Henry swallows the lump that forms in his throat.

“I am, in some way, glad that John is to leave this confinement,” Henry opens his mouth to protest but Harry beats him to it, “For, though he leaves us, what I treasure most is – he leaves _you._ ”

Harry leaves his chambers, slamming the door shut as he does so. And, for once, Henry thinks nothing is louder than the silence in the still room.

**x**

“Our dearest John does not deserve this.”

Polly meets Patsy’s eyes as she rakes her hand over John’s hair – who sleeps soundly on his bed. After the scene – once again, quite theatrical (for the right reasons) – at the dining hall, they tucked John into bed; urging him to rest before his… _doom._

“Indeed, he does not,” Polly says in agreement, “He is a kind brother, kinder than what a brother ought to be. He understands too much to be understood.”

Her words leave a stamp on their hearts, too heavy; too true.

“Oh, Polly,” Patsy cries out as reticent as she could manage, as to not disturb John’s sleep, “I do not want to lose our Jacky. Soon, he shall be taken by the wind to that… selfish, _hideous_ beast!”

Her eyes are of fury and Polly does not blame her. But, in a world where there are those who tower above their kind, all mortals must learn how to control their tongue.

“Patsy, you are furious and, dear sister, so am I,” Polly says cautiously, “But we must not be so thoughtless in our words. What if the beast we talk of is a god itself?”

Patsy snorts, quite undignified for lady such as she. “Aye, Polly, my foolish sister,” Polly glares at Patsy for the insult of herself, “If a god wanted our brother, they already would have taken him – without all the unneeded drama.”

“Aye, Patsy, it seems you are the foolish one,” now, it is Patsy’s turn to scowl, “You do not know how the gods love for theatrics and drama. My dear sister, have you heard of the tale of Eros and Psyche?”

“By Athena, of course I have, Polly!” and Polly almost laughs at the red that burst in her sister’s face (always seems so whenever she is angry), “The tale is too famed and only barbarians wouldn’t’ve to care to hear of it. I am certainly no barbarian!”

“My vigorous sister,” says Polly, laughing, “I admire your fiery of words and deeds – which I am certain that Sir David does too. But, I ask of you sweetly, do not be too quick to anger. It soon shall be your doom, you should know, Patsy.”

“Oh, damn you to the Fields of Punishment, you uncouth of a lady!” Patsy curses and Polly doubles in hushed laughter, clutching unto her stomach, “And I mean it! Damn you!”

The door gently opens, catching both the ladies’ attention. They turn their heads and smile at the sight of their brother.

“My, my, Pasty Ramsay,” Harry teases, walking closer to them, then seating at the edge of John’s bed, “I hardly knew you could cuss like a pirate’s wife. You astound the best of us, my sweet sister.”

“Hmph!” Patsy scoffs, crossing her arms, “I do not know why you three like to refer me as ‘sweet’ for I am sure I am all but that.”

“True,” Harry says, receiving a raspberry (immature, really) from Patsy, “But I still remember, when our… when our beloved mother still graced us with her presence, you were the sweetest sister we could have ever wished for. You would wake us with our favored desserts despite our mother’s complaints. You would always nurse us back to health whenever we ached of pain.”

Nostalgia washes over them. Their hearts, once bursting of joy moments ago, pains at the raw memories of the past.

“I suppose it stuck,” Harry says under his breath, only to be heard within the room, “You were the sweetest sister.”

“Oh, my dear brother,” Patsy brokenly says, her voice torn, and tears gather in her eyes as she does so, “The passing of our caring mother has changed us all, has it not? For the better or for the worse. We may try to deny it as much as we long to but, still, we have changed, have we not?”

“Everything has changed after the passing of our dearest mother,” speaks Polly, her voice quivering, “Now, everything shall change once John is taken away, and I am certain it shall be for the worse.”

Dread hangs in the air, the pounding of their hearts; perhaps heard even by the gods of the winds.

“That reminds me,” Patsy speaks, “How did your talk with father go? Hopefully, he did not accuse you of treason itself. We all know how father carelessly acts in anger.”

“He is disgraceful,” Harry’s growl is almost of a wild animal’s, his face twisting in anger, “He does not even have the decency to mourn. Rather, he surrounds himself with his whores.”

“Harry!” Polly gasps, “Do not speak of those women in such a crude way. You know, it is not of their choice to lay with the king.”

“I know,” Harry says regretfully, hanging down his head in shame, “I am just furious at father.”

“We all are,” Polly retaliates angrily, “Yet I do not insult those who have no control of their fate! It is father you shall insult rather than those poor girls!”

“And I am sure you will be too shocked to bat an eye of the words I have yelled to our father!” Harry snaps, “I am on your side. Do not act as I am not so!”

Polly growls and Patsy, in a haste, tries to put a halt to their brawl.

“Be quiet, the both of you!” Patsy berates them both, “John is asleep and, if you two would like to continue your altercation, you both are welcome – dare I say, even invited – to do so where our dearest brother will not hear any of it.”

The two immediately quiet down at their sister’s words, letting their prides wound rather than missing the sight of their brother in peace – which must be the last (and they beg to the gods to prove them wrong).

“I cannot believe the both of you,” Patsy tuts, her stare penetrating, “Our brother is to be taken away yet you two prefer to exchange hurtful words? Please, Polly, calm yourself and know that our Harry did not mean any offense in his words….”

Patsy pauses, directing her gaze to Harry, and silently asking. Harry vigorously nods his head.

“…and Harry, please be more thoughtful of your wording,” Patsy continues, “You never know who you wound with your words. _Words wound_ , remember that, the both of you.”

She glares at them both before her face softens to a smile; and though she would pull them into an embrace, they are too far of reach.

“Now, apologize to each other,” Patsy and Harry look at her incredulously, “I mean it. And so shall your apologies. Sincere and earnest. I will not accept any less.”

“Patsy, we are not children –”

“Aye, dear sister, please do not –”

She only responds to their protests with a mischievous grin. Harry and Polly both slump in defeat, refusing to meet each other’s eyes.

“I am the sorriest of ladies, my dearest brother,” Polly says, her forced smile tight-lipped, almost sending Patsy to a raucous laughter, “Forgive my misjudgment of thou.”

Patsy bites her lips, hard enough to bleed, as laughter threatens to spill from mouth.

“And I, the sorriest of men, my dearest sister,” Patsy takes a deep breath, trying to contain her widespread grin, “Forgive me for my harsh words.”

Patsy thinks this scene too comedic to be played in real life. She clears her throat, a grin of a Cheshire still prominent on her face, and ignores the glares they both send her.

“You see?” she says, “It was not the hardest you had to face.”

“You are a wicked woman, Martha Ramsay,” Polly speaks, “A wicked, _wicked_ woman.”

“Do not speak so ill of our sister, Polly,” says Harry, glaring at Patsy, “She may force you – once more – to apologize to her. Sincerely. Earnestly.”

“It is her that I shall force to say her most sincere apologies,” Polly grumbles.

The three burst into laughter, taking in the last moments of joy, and, so deep in their laughter, they do not notice the gentle smile that appears on John’s face – who, though awakened by his loud siblings, lets them have this.

They deserve nothing of less.

**x**

All is dark.

Drowsily, Henry opens his eyes when he feels someone calling his name. He represses a gasp when he catches sight of the soft sun rays that graze his dim-lit room. When he turns, he meets his daughter’s eyes and he gulps, feeling his heart twist painfully.

“Patsy,” he says in a soft breath, “It is dawn.”

Patsy nods and Henry suppresses the urge to wipe away the tears that stain his daughter’s cheek. _Dear gods, why must we go through this?_

“Jacky is preparing,” and her voice cracks, “He is to wear a frock as the Oracle wished for him so.”

Henry rises from his bed, walking to a chair and wrapping a coat around him. “I presume that Jack is not taking the whole ordeal… well?”

It only seems to be the wrong words to say.

Patsy stares at him, fire and fury dancing in her eyes. She walks to him, pointing a finger to his chest.

“No one is taking the ordeal well, father,” she presses her finger to his chest, “Though, it seems you are so. Harry has told of us of your escapades in the… bedroom.”

Henry’s breath hitches.

“Do you partake in the departing of your _son_?” Henry provides her no answer, simply stepping away from his daughter, “My, it even seems you celebrate in it. I am thankful for you, father, and I merely hope you still think the same as I say what I am to say –”

Henry grips the table, his hands turning white.

“ _You_ deserve of nothing else –” Henry flinches when he hears the shattering of glass, “– but to face the wrath of the gods and of us! You… You are wicked, father, so, _so_ wicked to our Jacky.”

Patsy walks past him and to the door.

“We are all expecting you, father,” Patsy says, “Jacky, especially. But, perhaps, for the sake of your children, it shall be better if you do not grace us your presence. No one wants of it.”

She turns briefly to meet his eyes once more before she retreats from his room, his door slamming as she does so.

Despite the delicate rays of Apollo that graces his room, Henry is still sure that all is dark.

**x**

“Why must –” John’s face contorts in disgust as he scours the gown that his sister brings to him, “– I wear an attire as such that? Must I die of humiliation?”

Polly groans, laying down the dress to the bed before she squeezes John’s nose. John whines, pushing away Polly from him.

“Ach, Jacky, must you act so childishly?” Polly chides, “It is the Oracle’s wish for you to dress as we do. Do you rather wear this _beautiful_ gown that Patsy and I have chosen for you or face the acrimony of the Fates and the gods above?”

“If I am to meet my doom, I prefer to meet it with dignity,” John retorts, “I am not wearing that. I do not care of the wrath of the Fates or the beast that courts me.”

Polly pulls her hair, quite painfully by the looks of it. “John, we have been over this! It simply is a dress; it will not harm you!”

“Ah, but you are a lady, dearest Polly,” says John, smirking at Polly’s enraged face, “And I am not. Gowns and frocks were not made for a body such as mine.”

“A body as yours?” Polly snorts, washing away the arrogance from John’s face, “Oh, my darling brother, you are made of sticks. Barely any meat there if I dare say so myself.”

John’s face flushes. “You insult me on the day I shall meet my doom? Shame on you, Mary Eleanor! Shame on you!”

“Both of you,” they flinch at the sound of Harry’s voice, turning to face him, “Proper yourselves. It is dawn.”

His voice is grave, reprieved of the spirit John is used to hearing. He deflates visibly.

“John, you are to wear the dress as the Fates wish you to,” when John opens his mouth to protest, Harry simply raises a finger, “No, I do not want to hear of it. We still shall ride to the cliff. We cannot delay any further.”

Harry leaves the room in a haste, shocking both Polly and John.

“Come on, Jacky,” Polly tugs John to the bed, “Wear the dress, my dear brother. Please do not make this harder for us all… for yourself.”

John complies, taking the emerald green gown in his hand, and walking to his dressing room.

“A beast, truly he is a beast,” he hears Polly say from outside the dressing room, “I am sorry, Jacky. You do not deserve this.”

**x**

Patsy gasps when her brother, John, steps out of his carriage.

His hair is twisted unto a fishtail, his eyes are downcast – as if afraid to meet anyone’s eyes. His dress of silk sways with his every step; the emerald bodice, embellished with gold, hugs his upper body tightly and his chest is revealed, shining with the sun. His skin is milky and a necklace is rests on his neck, his sleeves hiding his hands.

“Jack, you look –” his father starts only to be cut off by John.

“Please,” John looks up, his eyes shining with unshed tears, “Please do not, father. I feel shamed enough.”

Henry’s mouth shuts and Patsy cannot help but smirk in elation.

Before John could walk to the edge of the cliff, Harry pulls his brother in an embrace, his arms around John’s shoulders.

“Jacky,” whispers Harry, “Jacky, do not forget to write to us wherever you land. Wherever you shall be, bear in your stubborn mind that we shall always be here for you.”

She hears John sob and her heart aches, a tear trailing down her cheek.

_My poor Jacky, you do not deserve this._

“Shh, Jacky, shh,” Harry says, trying to soothe his brother, “We are here. Do not cry anymore, my dearest brother.”

“I-I’m scared,” and Patsy’s heart breaks, “So, so scared.”

Patsy runs to her brothers, wrapping her arms around John’s waist, and she rests her head on his shoulders.

“Oh, Jacky,” she says, crying, “You.. You are so beautiful, my dearest brother. Please… take care of yourself there. Please, for our sake, write to us. Please, my dear brother.”

“What if I do not live?” John asks in a whisper, “What if I do not –”

“Aye, John Laurens, do not think of that,” says Polly beside them, “Now, move along, you two. It is my turn to embrace our dear brother.”

Hesitantly, Harry and Patsy move away from John. Polly, carefully, wraps her arms around John – who, eagerly, returns the embrace.

“Know that, wherever you may be, my dear brother, I shall be praying to the gods for you,” says Polly, “Do not give in to your fears. Be strong, Jacky, and so shall we.”

“I shall be the strongest for you, Patsy and Polly,” responds John.

“And yourself.”

John escaped the embrace, smiling at his siblings the one last time, trying to remember as how they are before he is taken away from them.

“Son,” he wills himself to forget his father’s voice, “It is time.”

John gulps and walks to the edge of the cliff.

His heart pounds with every step he takes, closer and closer and closer… until he feels Apollo’s rays graze his skin.

He stares at the sun.

It is blinding.

He closes his eyes.

It is dark.

He reaches the end, shaking. He can hear his siblings’ sobbing and his father’s gasp. He does not pay mind.

_I am ready to meet my doom._

One more step and he falls.

His heart plummets and he has to stifle a scream when he doesn’t feel the comfort of the solid ground.

It is still dark.

**x**

“Mon, mon, il est magnifique dans cette robe, n'est-ce pas, mon amour?”

“Hon, I do not speak your language,” a deep voice speaks, “Please have mercy on your lover.”

_Am I in heaven?_

John opens his eyes, his heart thrumming when he realizes he is leaning onto a body. He shifts and moves away from the body.

He almost jumps in his position when he realizes he is riding a horse… with wings.

_A Pegasus?_

“Ah, on dirait que notre doux ami est reveille,” the man behind him speaks, “Bonjour, mon beau garçon.”

_Beautiful boy?_

“Je suis vivant?” he asks shakily.

He recoils when he feels the Pegasus… groan? John’s brows knit.

“Oh great, another Frenchie!” the Pegasus complains, “Do you not speak English? You are a prince and you come from an American colony so I only assume that you –”

“Y-you talk?”

The man laughs and the Pegasus groans (he did not know horses with wings could do that). John’s cheeks redden.

“Oh, tu es mignon, mon ami,” John furrows his brows, “Je peux voir pourquoi Hamilton est tombé amoureux de toi.”

John’s eyes widen. _Hamilton?_

_Alexander Hamilton the Soulless?_

**x**


	4. and your eyes are unlike any ocean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His eyes are enchanting – with hues of reds and blues dancing along them – and his gaze is of fire; captivating to those who look and ravaging to those who touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Vous pouvez regarder. Je ne possède pas les biens de mon amant."  
> "You can look. I am not possessive of my lover's goods."

“I am sorry,” John says, surprising himself, “But may you repeat that?”

Before the man could talk, the Pegasus – under him – growls and John has to suppress the urge to jump off the winged-horse. Only now does he realize that he is high in the sky, the light of Apollo’s sun hurting his eyes. He drops his gaze.

“Laf,” the Pegasus says threateningly, “Do not speak more. The boy will find out.”

The man behind him gasps. “Ah, oui, oui!”

“I am certain I have already found out,” John speaks, glaring, “The beast that desires me is Alexander Hamilton, is it not? Alexander Hamilton the _Soulless_?”

His statement receives no answer from the two. He frowns but bites back his tongue – the Pegasus could easily drop him.

Why must they keep such information from him? It is _he_ who shall face that beast – the beast that stole him away from his family. He does not deserve such silence from the beast’s… companions.

Trying to ignore his thumping heart, he repeats his question.

“Please,” he begs, “Do I not deserve to know who shall court me? I shall not run away; I swear on my life.”

“We shall tell you –” he almost embarrassingly coos at the man’s accent, “– once we arrive at _le palais._ ”

John’s brows raise at that. “I am to live at a palace?”

“You are a prince,” and he can almost feel the man’s stare, “Bien sûr vous vivrez dans un palais.”

“D’ya mind spelling that out for me in English, your highness?” he hears the Pegasus talk, almost jumping (he, still, is not used to it).

“Oh, uh,” he scrambles for Laf’s (?) words, “There is no need for you to address me as that, I suppose. And, uh, he said ‘of course, you will live in a palace,’”

He hears the man behind him burst in laughter. He furrows his brows in confusion.

_Did I mistranslate his French?_

“You are nervous, Prince John,” the man says, surprising John, “Why so?”

He almost doubles in laughter at the man’s seeming obliviousness. “ _Why so_?” he repeats mockingly, giggling, “Why so, you ask. Why _so_?”

“He asked the question nicely, young prince,” the Pegasus beneath him growls, “Answer it back in the same manner.”

“Forgive my manners, then,” he snaps, annoyance creeping unto him, “I was not taught to be kind to those who has taken me away from my family.”

John smirks triumphantly at the two’s loss for words.

“Young prince,” the man (Laf, he supposes?) is the first to recover, “We mean you no harm. Truly, we do not.”

“Then, pray tell,” John starts, “Why do you prefer me in a lady’s wardrobe? And why must you fetch me from a cliff? Does it pleasure Alexander Hamilton to see me frightened?”

He says his name with such hatred that, almost, he shocks himself.

“I am sure the sight of you pleasures Alexander enough –”

“Hercules!” Laf yells, slapping the horse’s rear side – to which the Pegasus responds with a hiss – nearly sending John into an uncontrollable fit of giggles, “Do not tease the young prince.”

“Ah, Lafayette, I’ve told you too many times to not hit my backside!”

 _Lafayette?_ John knows he has heard of that name once. He just cannot remember what of.

“Oh, _mon trésor_ ,” Lafayette starts, chuckling, “You know I do not care much.”

“Damn you, Lafayette, damn _you_ ,” Hercules curses.

“I shall not mind if it is you who shall damn me.”

John gags at their blatant flirting. Why must the gods punish him like this – to be stolen away from his family and to be stuck with _fools in love_?

“Oh, you know how much I would adore to _damn y_ –”

John covers his ears. He does not think he can handle this any further.

“The poor young prince,” and John is sure Lafayette is mocking him, “A few minutes in and he is already sick of our love.”

“I am sure anyone – who has spent a second with you both – is sick of your ‘love,’” he bites back, his face flushing in both embarrassment and anger.

“You and Alexander will get along tremendously,” John bites his tongue, “Just do not use that smart mouth of yours on him. Use it on anyone – Laf, me or whomever – just not Alexander. Only the gods know what he may do to you.”

He feels a shiver running down his spine at Hercules’ words.

“It is Alexander Hamilton, then?” he asks for confirmation, “Alexander Hamilton the _Soulless_?”

Rather than a proper answer from the two, they both burst in simultaneous laughter.

“What is it that you both find funny?” he glowers.

“Oh, young prince, you are alike every mortal we met,” says Lafayette, confusing John even further, “Let us explain… the condition of our Alexander.”

Lafayette astounds John by the affection he holds for Alexander Hamilton. _Is that man not a beast?_

“You are mistaken of our Alexander, young prince,” John merely raises his brows, staying silent as for Lafayette to continue, “Alas, every mortal is.”

John’s face scrunches in puzzlement. “Are you not mortal?”

“Perhaps, I am, Prince John,” Lafayette replies, “But that is none of your concern.”

John nibbles on his upper lip, feeling slightly guilty. “Sorry,” he apologizes meekly, “It, indeed, was none of my concern.”

“Alexander Hamilton –” the Pegasus talks after a second of silence, “– is alike to Orpheus. Only, where Orpheus excels in music, Alexander in words. His poetry pleased the gods, perhaps, too much.”

“I have heard of Alexander’s tale before,” John cuts in, “He is famed in South Carolina.”

In a sudden, the Pegasus swiftly, and without warning, flies down, sending John into a frenzied state. His heart picks up and he feels his stomach dropping as the Pegasus flaps his wings and reaches for the ground. He muffles a shriek that threatens to past his lips and holds on to the winged-horse. He can feel Lafayette clinging unto him and, for once, he does not mind. John does not blame him – he feels like falling.

To both the men’s relief, Hercules lands on the ground with a soft thud and John can finally breathe. He is quick to jump off the winged horse.

John takes a deep breath and scans his surroundings.

Blooming flora and fauna, a serene scenery, and, what stands in front of him, must be _le palais._

**x**

“Hercules, _mon amour_ , shall you be so slow?”

While Lafayette complains to his lover, John merely stares in his shock at the sight in front of him. Lafayette – a shockingly tall man – stands beside his lover, who, somehow, is altering his physical form unto a… human’s? John is mystified. Never, in his twenty years of living, has he ever seen a sight like this – a creature like him.

“Sweetie, it is not you who is shifting their shape,” Hercules angrily says, scowling at Lafayette, while his wings sink to his… Oh, John does not even want to think of it. “I shall allow you to judge of my pace once it is you who shapeshifts.”

“Forgive me for an interruption of your quarrel –” Lafayette and Hercules’ attentions snaps to him, “– but you, the Pegasus, is a shapeshifter? Those… Those are not merely myths?”

“Ah, see here, young prince,” Lafayette says, a wistful smile on his face, “There are a lot of things in our world that shall be considered myths, are there not?”

John’s face scrunches. His mind is blank of answers.

Lafayette chuckles at him, turning his attention to the Pegasus once more – who is, now, shifting his hind legs to his human counterpart’s. Lafayette mutters loving encouragements to Hercules and John stands in stillness, his mind still befuddled at the sight.

“Er…” John starts awkwardly, the urge to chew on his nails consuming him, “Does it – does it… hurt?”

He does not know who he aims the question to – Lafayette or Hercules. Nonetheless, he is grateful when they answer.

“I have been with Hercules long enough to know that the pain is simply _torturous_ ,” Lafayette says, rubbing small circles on his lover’s (now human) back, “Ah! You see, _mon amour_ , I am capable of using the word properly!”

He says it with such unabashed enthusiasm that almost even John celebrates. Hercules – despite the searing pain that his face unfailingly conveys – smiles (but John does not miss the hidden wince) at Lafayette and, in a rough voice, praises him. John is unsure whether the shapeshifter meant it in sincerity or sarcasm. Whatever it may have been, John notices the glee that dances along Lafayette’s features. He, subconsciously, lets his lips twist unto a tiny grin.

He continues to watch the scene unfold. As Lafayette mutters sentences in French, too hushed for John to make out any of the words, Hercules – at last – shifts his hooves into dark human feet.

John stares at the man-once-horse before him. He is large – like his Equestrian counterpart – and burly, his body towering over John. Perhaps John ought to feel intimidated but, with the kind smile that is planted on Hercules’ face, he feels none but at ease with the man.

Though, within the few seconds of staring, only now does John realize that the man is _naked._

John lets out a little squeak and turns around, his hands over his eyes, as red spreads across his cheeks like wildfire.

He hears Lafayette burst in laughter. He feels as if his face resembles that of the fiery depths of Tartarus.

“Oh, prince,” Lafayette calls behind him, “Vous pouvez regarder. Je ne possède pas les biens de mon amant.”

Now, he is certain that his face is the embodiment of Tartarus itself.

“Laf,” Hercules says, “Do not tease the young prince of my goods –”

John thanks the shapeshifter in silence, ready to turn around.

“– for I am sure it is Alexander’s he prefers.”

John freezes in his movement, revoking his gratitude. He silently prays to Zeus to strike him with his famed lightning bolt – he is sure that he would rather endure that than whatever… Hercules and Lafayette want him to endure.

“Oh, _mon amour_ ,” Lafayette coos, “Your French is improving. You understood all that I said?”

“And I shall understand all that you say,” Hercules flirts back. John gags.

John – knowing that if he does not move in his place, he will be stuck listening to their talk of lovemaking – turns around to face the couple, though his eyes are stuck to the ground.

Lafayette claps happily. Hercules snorts.

“Ah, young prince,” Lafayette begins, his tone of euphoria, “Your tolerance of Hercules and I’s – how you say – flirting is low. I am sure Alexander – _our_ Alexander who, certainly, shall not be known for his patience – outlasts you in listening to our love talk.”

“I am also sure that is not the only thing Alexander shall outlast of you,” Hercules says suggestively – though, when has he ever said a sentence to John that is _not_ suggestive? John scoffs.

“And I am not giving your Alexander the chance to prove that,” he rebuts, “He may dress me up as a doll all he likes or rip my hair off my scalp or whatever it is your Alexander desires to do with me but – I swear this to Athena above – that I shall never _love_ him.”

He lifts his gaze to the two, willing himself to not mind Hercules’ naked body.

“We do not expect you to,” Hercules says, his tone forlorn and almost… pitiful, “We know our Alexander is not the most lovable creature.”

John narrows his gaze, unsure of what to take of Hercules’ seemingly genuine words. “Then, why have you taken me to him?”

Lafayette’s eyes – a story of tragedy reflects in them – meet his. John feels his heart clench.

“Because –” Lafayette chews on his upper lip, unshed tears shining in his eyes, “– you are the only one who makes our Alexander smile. You may think us selfish, young prince, but you shall see how this is to your benefit.”

John frowns, snapping his gaze back to the ground underneath him – Lafayette’s words echoing in his mind. Silence ensues between the three.

“We shall enter the palace now,” Hercules breaks the silence with words that John hoped not to hear, “Alexander is waiting.”  
  


**x**

“…because of servants that are invisible to the human eye?”

His exclaim goes unnoticed by the two. John groans frustratedly, his hair now free from the ribbon that binds it, and rakes his hand through it, not minding the pain of brushing through his close-knitted curls. He seats on the teal wingback as they wait for Alexander’s arrival – who, truly, has no shame. He dares to steal away John yet he cannot even arrive on time? John furrows his eyebrows in anger.

“Yes, _mon ami_ ,” Lafayette replies, his tone of annoyance, “How many times shall we explain to you that those servants condemn relationships that are between the same of sex. They shall kill one of the lovers if they are caught wearing the same attire – masculine and masculine or feminine and feminine.”

John still sees no reason. “But do they not hear you two? I am sure both your voices are too deep to even be a lady’s.”

Hercules takes a deep breath, his hand massaging his forehead.

“Look here, prince,” Hercules harshly says, almost making John flinch, “The whole ordeal is complicated and perhaps Alexander is better fit to explain it to you. May you stop bothering us with questions of the servants? We, too, do not get the concept of them but they are _real_ and they have _killed._ That is all that matters.”

John pouts and crosses his arms, his mouth shut, pleasing both Hercules and Lafayette.

His mouth opens and – almost instinctively – Hercules lets out an irritated groan.

“Why is it I who shall dress in a frock though?”

Lafayette opens his mouth to answer but the door flies open.

“Because it is you who looks enticing in one,” the voice is smooth and John’s breath is caught in his throat as he takes sight of the man only a few moments away from him. He is tall and towering with features hardened over the years, he assumes. His skin is light and a slight stubble adorns his chin. Dark hair rests on his shoulders, clear specs resting on his nose.

His eyes are enchanting – with hues of reds and blues dancing along them – and his gaze is of fire; captivating to those who look and ravaging to those who touch.

He swallows nervously when Alexander walks to them – slowly as if he is to walk into a fire.

“John Laurens of South Carolina,” John breathes in deep when he feels Alexander’s gaze scour him, “Aren’t you just _ravishing_ in that gown? Remind me to thank your sisters for their fine taste in dresses.”

“Perhaps I would, _Hamilton_ ,” he spits out in anger, raising his gaze to meet Alexander’s, “But I shall not for it is you who has stolen me away from them.”

“You know, John Laurens,” Alexander cups his cheek with a hand, reveling at the crimson that tints John’s pale cheeks, while John squirms under Alexander’s touch, “Your beauty is not what has drawn me to you. Though, I admit that your pulchritude is beyond words. How shall it not? With eyes as dark as Artemis’ night sky, freckles sprinkled unto your cheeks like constellations are unto the sky, lips as delicate as a lady’s, and…”

Alexander trails off, merely looking at John – who feels the man’s gaze perturbing. He gulps and wills himself to keep his gaze straight.

“…dear gods, Laurens, you are delectable,” and John curses his eternal capability to blush, “Ah, forgive me. I am straying. What I meant to say is – though your looks are of Aphrodite’s and, dare I say, even more – it is your bravery that has left my senses numb of pleasure.”

John glares at Alexander and pushes away his hand from his face with a grunt. “Then I shall be a coward.”

“You see?” Alexander smiles and John wishes he can rip it off his face, “Brave.”

Alexander turns around to face Hercules and Lafayette – who are still yet to speak.

“Show him to his chambers,” and his voice is gentle, unlike his teasing one with John, “Meet me after that, will you? Once more, there is trouble in paradise.”

Lafayette’s eyes widen in alarm while Hercules lets out a tired sigh. They comply, nonetheless.

Alexander leaves in a haste – but not without sparing a glance to John.

He lets out a breath. “He is…” he does not know how to phrase his sentence without it seeming too rude, “…intense.”

“And even more if you anger him,” warns Hercules, “I advise you to be careful of your words. Alexander is capable of doing anything to anyone if he deems that they deserve it.”

John ignores the shiver that goes up his spine. He nods shakily.

Lafayette, noticing his distress, smiles at him sympathetically. “Do not be so afraid of our Alexander, John,” and that is the first time Lafayette speaks his name, “He may seem soulless but – and I beg of you to trust me on this one – he is the most soulful you shall ever meet. He feels with a raging fire and, sometimes, the fire engulfs him.”

Lafayette then sighs, his stare dropping to the floor. “But I shall not speak in flowery,” he says, “Alexander is a hurricane and he shall destroy everything that gets in the way. Though he may adore you, that does not exempt you from his wrath, young prince. I beg you to tread lightly around him.”

Their concern warms John’s chest.

He nods, feeling too tired to form words.

“Now, let us bring you to your room.”

He complies with no complaints – his mind fuzzy from the events of today. He begs of the gods to guide him because – dear Zeus – how shall he handle Alexander who seems he will eat the world raw if he has to.

**x**


	5. cursing my sore blunt tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps, he should have ran away; he would have rather burden the wrath of the Fates with his siblings at his side rather than endure Alexander’s mere presence.

“Johnny, which do you prefer of the two?”

John is shocked out of his reverie, his gaze traveling to Lafayette – who, without a knock, intrudes his once-peaceful room. Lafayette stands in a beige gown – flowing in all directions the wind desires it to – and holds two gowns which John assumes he will be picking. John frowns but holds back his protests, knowing he is left with no choice but to dress in a lady’s wardrobe – or it is his life on the line. But, perhaps, John would prefer that.

On Lafayette’s right hand – is a periwinkle gown, its corset adorned with butterflies, and its sleeves loose. On Lafayette’s left hand – is a blushing pink gown, backless and long. John doesn’t bother to hide his discomfort.

“Oh, I know, young prince,” Lafayette says, sympathy in his smile, “But Alexander chose these gowns himself. I am certain you would not want to displease him, _non_?”

“I am willing to displease him as much if it means that I will be free of his grasp,” John remarks, a frown too ugly etched on his face, “I am not wearing those dresses. I shall show up in an attire fit for a prince.”

Lafayette sighs. “Young prince, did we not tell the consequences of wearing the same attire as your lover? Alexander is already –”

“But Alexander is not my lover!” John shouts, cutting off Lafayette, “Nor shall he ever be! I do not see why I must wear a gown if I have not a lover that is the same of my sex.”

Lafayette stares at him – his smile now a scowl – and it perturbs John. His eyes are almost of steel and his gaze is sharp as if seeking every secret John hides. John gulps nervously.

“Do not make this harder for any of us, John,” and the second time Lafayette speaks his name, it is not kind, “It is a gown. I do not see what you are risking.”

“My pride is what I am risking –”

“Is your pride worth more than your life?”

John glares at Lafayette.

“Yes,” he snaps back, “Perhaps it is. I am quite certain that I would rather die of dignity than live of shame. I am not wearing a lady’s attire.”

“Yet you already are,” Lafayette states, eyeing his emerald frock. John curses his witty tongue. “Alexander is not a man of patience. He is waiting.”

Lafayette walks to him, placing the gowns beside him. John sighs.

“I do not care if you go there with those gowns or naked,” Lafayette says sharply, walking back to the door, “Just do not make Alexander wait. Zeus forbid if you do.”

Lafayette leaves his room with a faint thud.

John stares at gowns beside him.

“Alright, Alexander,” he says to none but himself, “If you desire me to play your game, then I shall.”

**x**

“The young prince does have a point, Alexander,” Lafayette says, lazily playing with his fork, “Why do you prefer him to wear a lady’s attire if you two are not lovers yet?”

“The servants have memory,” Alexander replies, “They do not care for the hair or the voice or any of it – just the attire. The concept of them is odd, that I know, but it is real. They shall kill.”

Hercules hums, fiddling with his tablecloth in boredom. “Laf, don’t you just look stunning in that nightgown?”

Alexander groans, knowing where it is leading. His complaint goes unnoticed by the two.

“Oh, _mon amour_ ,” Lafayette slyly smirks, eyelashes fluttering coyly, “It is only one layer. Barely does it cover my body.”

“But, my love,” Hercules licks his lips, eyeing Lafayette from head to toe, “That is what I love about it. Perhaps, next time, you are to wear none but –”

“Nope!” Alexander covers his ears, “I am not listening to your talk of your lovemaking. Keep it to your chambers.”

“Indeed, we shall –”

“If I have to bear listening to your moans and groans one more time,” Alexander growls, glaring at the two, “I shall let you two sleep outside.”

“Oh, Alexander,” says Lafayette, his eyelashes fluttering, “You do know that will only encourage us more, _mon petit lion._ ”

Alexander rolls his eyes. “Where is John?”

As if the fates are in the mood for irony, John Laurens enters the room with a dramatic opening of the door and Alexander’s eyes roam to John’s, like a moth drawn to the flame. He subconsciously licks his lower lip as he ogles at John – who wears the backless dress. His hair is loose, curls resting bouncily on his shoulders, and his lips –

Oh, what Alexander would do to feel those lips against his.

“Alexander,” John greets him curtly, curtseying. Alexander raises his brow.

“Doll,” Alexander greets back and he knows the name is fitting, “Do not glare at me. It fits you, doll.”

“I am not a doll, Alexander,” John grits his teeth, his eyebrows knitting in frustration, “Do not treat me as one.”

“You look like a doll,” he lazily says, “And, dear gods, what I would do to have a taste of this doll.”

John’s face flushes in anger, clutching his gown in a death grip. He inhales and smirks at Alexander – his anger fading from his face – as he coyly brushes a loose curl to his ear.

“Work for it,” John remarks, shocking Alexander by his words, “Then, perhaps, I will let you have a taste of this doll.”

He walks to the other end of the table, his hips swaying effortlessly. Alexander nibbles on his upper lip.

Lafayette and Hercules – seeming shocked of the young prince’s blatant display of coquetry – merely stare at the two. Hercules is the first to recover from his silence, clearing his throat as he does so.

“Wow – uh, John, we never, uh –”

John takes a seat, opposite to Alexander’s, and innocently smiles.

“Let us… dine,” Lafayette says uncomfortably, “The servants have prepared many delicious meals. We hope it is to your pleasure, John.”

“Salmon,” John notes, “My favorite.”

Alexander does not eat; rather, he watches John munch on the fish as if there is no promise of tomorrow. He feels himself pleased at John’s eager appetite.

He knows John does not meet his eyes on purpose.

Alexander has lived many years – enough to know the game the young prince tries to play with him. If it is this game John prefers to play, then Alexander shall too – it is only a game if he, as well, plays.

“John,” he speaks, “Do you like your sleeping quarters?”

John continues to eat. “Why do you ask, Alexander?”

“Because I want to,” John raises his gaze, staring at Alexander, “And, what I want, I shall get.”

John takes a bite of his fish, his gaze fixed on Alexander.

He merely raises a brow in a challenge.

“The sleeping quarters are comfortable, at least,” John says, dropping his gaze back to the food. Alexander does not bother to hide his smirk. _He won._

“I take it you will have no trouble sleeping then?”

“Once again shall I ask for the reason of your questions,” John says, confusion in his eyes, “They do not make sense.”

“They do not have to,” Alexander responds coolly, “I simply ask.”

“Then, I do not want to answer them,” Alexander frowns at John – who still continues to eat his salmon, not sparing a glance at Alexander.

“And why not?”

“Because I simply do not want to,” John cockily meets his eyes, a kittenish smirk on his lips, and Alexander snarls in response, “Is that not enough a reason for you, Alexander?”

“If you do not want to answer my questions – which I respectfully ask – then, perhaps, it is time for you to retire to your chambers,” as soon as the words leave Alexander’s mouth, John’s eyes widen and his mouth drops in shock.

“You cannot do that,” John protests, ignoring the warning looks Hercules and Lafayette sent him, “You cannot dismiss me as if… as if I were a mere child.”

“Well, if you do not desire to be dismissed –” Alexander tuts, basking in John’s seeming helplessness, “– then you are to answer my questions as I ask them. Respectfully.”

John grips on his fork, his knuckles paling as he does so.

“No,” John firmly forces the word out of his mouth, “You may think you hold the power over me – and all because you stole me away from my family rather than courting me properly. You may think you have established your power but, no, Alexander, _no._ All you have – and all you will – establish to _me_ is your cruelty. Lafayette or Hercules may say so otherwise but, in my eyes, you are none but a monster of no soul or bravery.”

Alexander’s face remains of stone, refusing to convey his emotions. He does not respond.

That seems to encourage John even more.

“You do not – and you shall never will – earn the power to dictate me or my life,” John stands up from his chair, walking to the colossal door leading to the exit of the dinner room, “I thank you for ruining my appetite.”

A bang echoes throughout the large room as John slams the door close.

**x**

John sinks to the floor, his back against his bedroom door – a faint burn that runs through his bare back. He covers his face with his hands, too exhausted to even hold back the sobs that echo throughout his grandiose room.

Thoughts of his siblings enter his mind like a whirlwind and, at that moment, all he craves for is his siblings’ comforting touch – Harry’s silly antics that never fails to put a smile on his face, Patsy’s voice that always feels like home and Polly’s touch that warms his heart evermore. He whimpers, bringing his knees closer to his chest, as he attempts to console himself.

Perhaps, he should have ran away; he would have rather burden the wrath of the Fates with his siblings at his side rather than endure Alexander’s mere presence. 

“Damn him to Tartarus itself,” John whispers, his voice hoarse, wishing the gods were listening to him. He wipes the tears that stain his cheeks away and sniffs, his lips contorted to a frown. “Dear gods, how much shall I weep before you hear of my prayers? How much shall I suffer to see my dearest siblings once more? How much shall I endure?”

John sighs to the wind, shuts his eyes and prays that – when he opens them – he shall realize that all this is a dream of his mind and he shall wake up to his siblings’ loving faces.

“Mon ami, tu es là?”

John stands from his position on the floor to open the door. He is met with the sight of Lafayette and Hercules.

“Oh, John,” Lafayette walks closer to him and, unexpectedly, wraps John in an embrace. John melts into the warmth and only now does he realize how much he longs for embraces. He buries his face against Lafayette’s neck, breathing in the unfamiliar yet homely scent.

It reminds him of his siblings – of Polly, Harry and Patsy.

John bites his lips furiously to cease the sob threatening to rip out of him. Tears fall freely from his eyes – for once, he does not care for the Frenchman’s thoughts of him as he basks in the warmth he has longed for too long.

Lafayette rubs his back, singing an unfamiliar French lullaby.

“ _L'était une p'tite poule grise_ ,” Lafayette sings and though his voice is not of the nine muses, it comforts John, nonetheless, “ _Qu'allait pondre dans l'église_.”

“ _Pondait un p'tit coco_ ,” John sniffles, the voice of Lafayette echoing in his mind as he tries to ignore thoughts of Alexander, “ _Que l'enfant mangeait tout chaud_.”

John loses his track of time, his mind focused on only two – a hushed French lullaby and a warm embrace.

John, then, tries to wiggle himself out of Lafayette’s clutch. Lafayette, sensing his movement, softens his grasp on John and lets him free.

Hercules comes forward. “Here,” he says to John, holding out a nightgown, similar to Lafayette’s, “Your sleeping gown.”

“Ah,” John chuckles dryly, taking it from Hercules’ hands, “So, even in sleep, I shall dress as such a lady?”

“The servants are everywhere,” Hercules says, an apology behind his smile, “We cannot risk your life. We shall give you space to yourself.”

“No,” John firmly tells the two – who prepares to leave – his fear of desolation outweighing his pride, “Please do not. I do not wish to be left alone.”

Lafayette nods understandingly. Hercules smiles at him.

“Erm…” John begins awkwardly, “…may you turn around?”

He is grateful when they do – no protests heard or questions asked. John kicks off his shoes and hastily slips off the dress, eager to discard the dress that clings to his body as paint clings to the canvas. He leaves his undergarments on, unfolding the nightgown and frowning as he does so. It is long – reaching to his ankles – and, most likely, John shall trip on the gown. He ignores that and slips it on, his mind too tired to even question this dress.

“You may turn around,” John says, his voice faint.

John sits on his bed, the plush mattress sinking on his weight. Lafayette turns around and sits next to him. Hercules walks closer to the bed, standing in front of them.

“We cannot replace your siblings, _mon arbre_ ,” Lafayette says to him, “And we do not intend to but we shall be here for you.”

John nods numbly.

“Forgive our Alexander,” says Hercules, his eyes downcast, “He has a tendency to be a numbskull.”

“Indeed,” Lafayette agrees, locking his gaze with Hercules, “We shall not force our opinions of Alexander down on your throat. If you do think him a monster, then we shall not blame you for it. It is what our Alexander deserves – after his stunt during supper.”

“I have not an idea of how you tolerate him,” John says, “He is insufferable. Boorish. Impolite. Insulting – an embarrassing excuse of a… poet or whatever it is he refers himself as.”

Alexander’s face paints itself on his mind and John scowls, his mood ruining.

“Time shall grant you tolerance,” Lafayette says, his eyes clouding of nostalgia, “We have been with Alexander from the beginning. I suppose – and, dare I say, hope – you shall tolerate him too.”

Lafayette, noticing John’s ever-present scowl, mends his statement with haste.

“I am not saying you shall excuse his attitude,” Lafayette explains, “All I am saying is that, hopefully and with time, you two will learn to –”

“Lafayette, please do not,” John pleads, “I am certain this talk of Alexander is taking up my restraint to push him off a cliff.”

Hercules laughs. “Ah, John,” says he, laughter between his words, “You told our Alexander of courting. Explain to us the American art of courting, will you? American policies are complicated – at best.”

“Indeed, _mon amour_ ,” Lafayette agrees, lacing his fingers with Hercules’ own, “Why is it that you of South Carolina shall be courted and those of New York – or whatever American colony that does same – shall court? You both are royals, _non_?”

“Ah,” John says, grateful for the diversion of topics, “The rule – of which royals are only to be courted – exists only in South Carolina. Father – my father, King Henry – and his ancestors believe that royals shall not work for marriage or love.”

“Oh,” Hercules says in understanding, “So, it is only the South Carolinian royals who are to be courted?”

“Yes,” says John.

“Then it is only the South Carolinian royals who are to be married to the other colonies’ royals?” Lafayette asks, his eyebrows knitted in confusion, “Are there enough of you to marry to all the royals of the Thirteen Colonies?”

John bursts into laughter. Lafayette glares at him, pouting in mock hurt.

“It matters not who shall courts and who shall be courted – at least, for the other colonies,” John explains, his mind eased by Hercules and Lafayette’s presence, “It matters only in South Carolina.”

“Is there a preference of sex for those who court you?” asks Hercules, his tone genuinely curious, “In Ireland, our royals are meant to marry the opposite of their sex – for heirs.”

“In France, it matters not,” Lafayette says, his tone suggestive as he eyes Hercules up and down, “We do not care for the sex but for _the_ sex.”

John rolls his eyes – of affection, though he would be quick to deny it – and stifles his chuckle when Hercules raises his eyebrows lewdly.

“I shall not bear your flirting,” quips John, snorting, “Though, in South Carolina, it matters not the sex – only their status.”

“South Carolina is a bit too traditional, is it not?” says Lafayette, “Back in France, our princess married a peasant. Grandest love story if I do say so myself.”

Lafayette’s eyes are wistful, staring into the wind. John’s mind perks up and, though he is curious, he knows better than to speak up – it seems too insensitive as to. He can see – from the way the Frenchman’s eyes glisten as he tells the tale of the princess and her peasant – that Lafayette is somehow weaved in that tale.

He gently squeezes Lafayette’s shoulder, trying to offer, though subtly, comfort to him. Lafayette gratefully smiles at him and Hercules stares at them, beaming.

John thinks he may survive Alexander’s presence.

**x**

Alexander stares at the empty dinner hall. He leans against the threshold, the doors wide open as he watches the table clean itself with the wind (or the invisible servants). His eyes are hollow and his heart is tired – though that is merely a poetic way to say it. He yawns unashamedly, his mouth wide-open. He rubs his eyes, trying to keep them open.

He rakes his hand through his hair – now loose on his shoulders, free from the ribbons that bind his thousand strands of hair. Alexander leaves the dining hall silently and walks to the staircases. He gazes at the marble staircase before him, a thousand steps before he could reach the upper floor. Alexander’s bones ache as he imagines how much effort walking would cost him.

He sighs, walking expeditiously despite his exhaustion.

When Apollo raises his sun, once more, he would have to visit Olympus. Alexander groans. Visiting Olympus meant dealing with the gods’ petty drama – which, frankly, is better suited for the blooming youth more than grown, immortal gods.

As Alexander reaches the end of the seeming-endless staircase, he races, in a quite childish manner, to his room – but not without sparing a glance to John’s room, only a few rooms away from his. He can hear laughter and three voices behind the silver doors. A contented smile makes its way to his lips.

He opens his bedroom doors and is greeted by the familiarity of his chambers; the smell of dripping ink, melting candles and parchment calming his too-exuberant mind – his thoughts never coming to an end. He takes a deep breath and steps in, shutting the door.

Alexander basks in the warmth of his dimly lit room and heads out to his balcony. He rests his hands on the white railing, staring at Artemis’ luminescent moon and the thousand constellations – that, once, walked Gaia – painted on Kronos.

He shuts his eyes, the shines of a thousand stars against his face, as he revels in the peace he can only find within Artemis’ time of Kronos.

The said peace soon shatters when a familiar face enters the scene.

“Perhaps that is the longest I’ve seen you without uttering a word.”

Alexander’s eyes open and he groans when he catches sight of Aaron Burr – a friend bordering on enemy – in his balcony beside him.

“What are you doing here?” Alexander asks, “Do not tell me Hera murdered another one of Zeus’ lovers once more. I have had enough of their endless drama.”

“I have too,” Alexander is almost surprised at Burr’s agreement (hardly does the man show his opinion on anything), “It is not why I came here though. I am here for John Laurens.”

Alexander stiffens at the mention of John’s name. He glares at Burr.

“No,” he answers harshly, “If you are asking me to return him home, I shall not. Thousands of princes have done it with their lovers – by Zeus, even Eros himself has done it with Psyche. Why shall I be forbidden from doing so?”

Burr sighs.

“Calm down, Alexander,” Burr says, caution in his tone, “I am not saying that you are forbidden from doing so. All I am saying is – there is a better way to win your prince’s heart.”

Alexander snorts. “Too late for that, is it not, Burr?”

“His siblings are grieving, Alexander,” Burr says and, this time, desperation laces his voice, “Return him to his kingdom. Court him as a South Carolinian prince deserves to be so.”

“I cannot,” Alexander retorts, “You do not understand my predicament, Burr.”

“Then tell me what there is to understand,” Burr counters, “Alexander, the disappearance of Prince John Laurens could cause the fall of South Carolina.”

“I am his fate, Burr,” Alexander faces Burr, eyes burning of fury, “May kingdoms fall, may oceans rise, may kings go mad – it hardly matters for I am _his_ fate as he is mine.”

“I am just saying, Alexander,” Alexander snorts, knowing Burr is only trying to slither his way out through his _neutrality_ , “Have you made him lose his sensibility? Only Athena knows how Lafayette and Hercules bear you – with your personality and presence.”

“At least I have a _personality_ ,” Alexander sasses, “You might as well be the god of neutrality himself.”

“Hah,” Burr chuckles dryly, “You humor me, Alexander.”

Alexander merely scoffs, letting silence drape itself over the atmosphere. He sighs tiredly.

“As much as I enjoy conversing with you, Burr –” Alexander starts, “– which, to be frank, not so much, I still have to prepare for tomorrow’s visits.”

“You will write?”

At Burr’s words, Alexander feels the throbbing pain of his hands.

“I have written from day to night,” replies Alexander, “Perhaps I will rest.”

“Then I shall depart.”

When Alexander turns around, Burr is gone with the wind. Alexander shakes his head; he is still yet to ask Burr how he manages that – unless Burr merely sprouts wings out of his back (like Hercules, quite a tedious process, really).

With one last glance at Artemis’ moon, Alexander walks back to the familiar comfort of his room and flops unto his bed, not bothering to switch to his sleeping attire.

John’s face is the last thing he sees before sleep takes over his senses.

**x**


	6. can't find paradise on the ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burr stands breathless in Alexander’s words – it is not a wonder why some consider this man a god, a beast, a hero; for every word he spews, the world sways with it. How Alexander speaks – it will never fail to stun Burr.

“Alexander, please.”

Burr meets Alexander’s eyes – flames and fury dancing between the violet hues – and points a heated glare towards him, urging him to stop his rambling. He places a hand on Alexander’s shoulders – the gesture speaking a warning – and steels him down the stool, separating him from Samuel Seabury, much to the latter’s relief.

Alexander growls and forces himself out of Burr’s grip, facing the stool once more, words of threat on the tip of his tongue, and Burr groans, palming his face.

“Burr, spare me of your tactics,” Alexander spits out, his knuckles paling of anger, “While you bother yourself playing niceties, I myself am decisive. I shall not tame myself for those who are untamable themselves.”

“As if you bother to tame yourself, no matter the circumstance,” Burr mutters under his breath but his words are unheard by Alexander – who prepares himself for another brawl, and so he raises his voice, a sigh in his tone, “Alexander, I am sure you’ve caused enough commotion. We are still needed in Olympus. Save your words for something worthy.”

Samuel Seabury lets out an offended gasp – much to his chagrin and to Alexander’s amusement – and puffs his chest, his small stature punctuated by the stool. Burr shakes his head, ready for Seabury’s defensive statement.

“Good sir, are you saying I am not worthy?” Seabury steps down the stool, walking towards Burr, and facing him, their breaths clashing, while Hamilton watches in beguilement, “I’ll have you know that I am all but.”

Burr prevents himself from rolling his eyes, trying to keep his face neutral, and lets an easy smile play on his lips. He places his hands on Seabury’s shoulders, the gesture taking the man aback, shrinking to his natural height.

“I’m sure you are,” Burr says, his hands retreating to his sides, as he steps away from Seabury, “Forgive my wording – what I meant to say is Alexander and I must really depart for Olympus. The gods await us.”

“I shall be on my way then,” Seabury walks away from them, sparing one last glance to Burr and one last glare to Hamilton. Alexander narrows his gaze, a thousand of words locked in his eyes.

When Seabury leaves their sight, Alexander turns to Burr, his energy of an overexcited child, and a teasing smile on his lips.

“Do not,” Burr says before Alexander can even open his mouth to let words flow out, “Do not make such a deal of this, Alexander. That was nothing special.”

Burr starts to walk to their carriage, Alexander following closely.

“Right,” Alexander says, drawing out his vowels, “I am sure by how you two look at each other, you will both be bedded by dusk.”

“I do not wish to bed or to be bedded, Alexander,” when the white carriage makes its way to peripheral, Burr smiles in glee and nearly runs to his ride, trying to deflect Alexander’s attempt of teasing, “I only wish for you to shut your damn mouth.”

“You wound me, Burr,” Alexander says, pushing him off the way, and jumping inside the carriage, “But you flatter me all the same. To know that the man – with such riddling apathy – wishes something of me merely makes my pride soar to the heavens above.”

“Stop your cheek,” Burr steps in, sitting across Alexander, and shuts the little door, “We are to face the gods.”

At his words, they feel the carriage take off to the skies and – finally, _finally_ – Alexander clamps his lips, locking any of his bothersome words from seeping through. Burr silently thanks the gods above for relieving him a migraine.

**x**

“I think I will earn myself a migraine if I am to watch you two flirt for one more second.”

John crosses his arms like a petulant child, his lips turned to a defiant frown, lazily spread out across the sofa, as he watches Lafayette straddle Hercules. He gags, throwing them a look of disgust when Hercules only encourages Lafayette further, grabbing his hips.

“Then do not watch, _mon chou_ ,” Lafayette says, distracted, as he hungrily gazes Hercules’ lips. Hercules smirks, squeezing his buttocks, earning a delighted sound from Lafayette and they happily ignore John’s repeated sounds of disgust.

“Or you two could take it to your chambers,” John retorts, his tone blatantly conveying his disgust, “But perhaps I shall take my leave. Is there a library here somewhere? I want to read a book.”

“It is right next to Alexander’s bedroom,” Hercules pulls Lafayette forward, their lips clashing and they move together like animals in heat.

John opens his mouth to ask _where Alexander’s bedroom is_ but shuts it when they start grinding on each other. He closes his eyes and leaves the room in a haste, willing for his brain to forget those mortifying pictures meant for his nightmares than anything else.

John walks around the palace, in search for Alexander’s bedroom, taking quick turns. He cranes his neck, searching every nook of the palace for Alexander’s damned room, and quietly cursing because _damn him if you shall but everything looks the same._ He walks and walks and walks, ignoring the pleasant way the silk brushes against his legs.

He is close to giving up when he comes across a series of marble doors, each and every identical to each other. John sighs tiredly, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, and resists the urge to break down the doors with his bare hand. He thinks of giving up, of retreating to his room, of having to bear watching Lafayette and Hercules grind unto each other like wolves in _mating_ –

John shakes his head, nausea creeping up on him at the mental image his mind conjured and tells himself to stand strong – he will _not_ give in to his fears.

But he glances at the ivory doors, head spiraling at the indistinguishable series of doors, and he decides he doesn’t have the energy to bother himself looking through the labyrinthine palace.

“I suppose I will have a migraine either way,” John says, giving up in his pursuits of both sparing himself from the couple’s sickening lust and entertaining himself with books. He walks to his room, stopping midway when a flash of gold shines in the corner of his eyes.

He turns, grinning when he spots a colossal door – embellished with golden, frozen leaves – and harrumphs victoriously, jumping in the air. He glances at the door next to it – plain in comparison and John thinks it’s safe to assume that is Alexander’s bedroom.

The curiosity of what lies inside a monster’s chambers almost gets the better of him. John puffs and walks to the doors, opening them wide.

He is greeted with the sight of aisles of books, parchment and quills. John thinks, at that moment, he has found his very own Elysium in this place akin to Tartarus.

**x**

“Forgive me, Lord Zeus, for my inability to comprehend your earlier statement but may you please repeat that?”

Alexander bites on his tongue, hard enough for blood to seep through the flesh – clutching his seat in an iron grip – when Zeus repeats his words, doing what is asked of him, his words echoing throughout the hall of his palace as he does so. The other gods and goddesses raise their voice, their opinions for the topic bouncing in his mind.

“If I may be so daring to interrupt,” Burr’s voice brings a sense of familiarity to him in the sea of chaos the gods have brought upon him – for once, Alexander doesn’t meet Burr’s attempts to counterpoise the situation with hostility but with gratitude, “I think we all need to settle down. We will not solve anything if our minds are caught in chaos.”

To Alexander’s relief, the gods quiet down under Burr’s words.

“Now that we are all in a better state of mind,” Alexander speaks up, authoritative, “I would like for every god and goddess think of their actions for the future and the consequences that will unfold. What Lord Zeus and Lady Athena plan to do – though I commend the creativity and wit of it – will gravely endanger the mortals.”

“They are our playthings,” Hera says, mindlessly biting her nails, “Why shall we care?”

“They are also your worshippers,” Alexander states and Burr can see the wires – in his mind – twisting and turning to placate Alexander’s endless inventory of words, “Mortals sacrifice their own blood, their own flock to please their gods. Without the sacrifices of mortals, your legacies will fade into dust. No one will remember how the mighty Zeus controlled the skies with his bare hands or how the poetic Apollo crafted masterpieces in his palms or how the fierce Artemis howled with the moon or how the burly Ares waged in the most gruesome of wars. The mortals preserve your legacy on Gaia and they shall do so endlessly. But it will fade away – all of it; the tales of your greatness, the kingdoms of your kin – if you follow through with your plan.”

Burr stands breathless in Alexander’s words – it is not a wonder why some consider this man a god, a beast, a hero; for every word he spews, the world sways with it. How Alexander speaks – it will never fail to stun Burr.

If he shall speak in anger, he spits out his words as if a curse, each leaving their own scar into one’s mind. If he shall speak in happiness, the words flow out as bubbles that float around one’s heart, each bursting with colors. If he shall speak in sadness, the words are heard as a song of suffering, akin to Orpheus’ melodies, each sharply cutting one’s heart into shards of crystal glass. If he shall speak in fear, he brings the whole world to him, each placing a nightmare over one’s head.

If Alexander shall speak, mountains shall move.

Burr breathes in and pays a glance in Alexander’s direction. He raises his brow and wonders and thinks and finds out –

Alexander has never spoken in – and of – love.

Then he remembers Alexander’s words from the night before – John Laurens, his fate, his prince as Alexander said.

_But that is not love._

Burr quietly sighs, leaving his seeming endless catena of thoughts, and focuses on the scene unfolding before his eyes.

“The Alexander speaks of truth,” Zeus finally says after an unusual – and rare – moment of silence that dawns the atmosphere, “There will be no one to remember us if we continue this plan.”

“We can rebuild our legacies, my lord, as we did so before –”

“Athena, my mind has been made up,” Zeus says, his words of certitude, much to Burr and Hamilton’s relief, “Alexander is right. We cannot risk these mortals. We cannot risk our legacies.”

“But, my lord –”

“Athena.”

The goddess of wisdom is quick to purse her lips, sighing of disappointment.

“Now that we have uncovered the issue of Zeus and Athena’s plan,” Aphrodite says, reprieving the room of any tension, the air breaking into a familiar chaos, “Let us focus on _my_ issues. I am sure every each one of you has heard of the tales of the _Lady Heloise._ ”

Burr bites back a groan, his head lolling to the side. Alexander doesn’t bother to conceal the tired sigh that pasts his lips. They share a look of disdain.

There is one thing Hamilton and Burr agree on and that is their hatred of the gods’ unnecessary drama.

**x**

_My darling sister,_

_It has only been the fewest of days since we have bid our farewell yet only the gods know of my anguish and torment in this palace. If perhaps Alexander was less a monster than he truly is, perhaps you would have known of my suffering here – yes, I know what it is you think of as you read over those words. He seems too good, too kind – from the tales they tell us – for such an act too cruel but that is only your perception of him. What you perceive a person to be, does not parallel to what a person is._

_But my hopes of who he is are torn apart too. I remember from my childhood – when our dearest mother would tell us the tales of Alexander and his poetry – I created an image of a man who raised empires from the mere utterance of his words. I wished, dreamed, hoped to be that man someday. But it seems the Fates never attune to our wishes._

_So, as I write to you with a borrowed quill and stolen parchment, I am stuck in his palace – but if I may be frank, it feels more of a penitentiary than a palace – in a lady’s ballgown. You see, my sweet Polly, the reason I wear a lady’s clothing seems more like a child’s fib than a certain circumstance. Alexander – I cannot write his name without feeling of disgust, I apologize if the force of my hand grazes the fragile parchment – says there are unseen servants that shall kill if they spot lovers wear the same attire. I find it silly, unbelievable and, to a degree, cruel. Can you imagine a world where they forbid love between two souls, merely for the reason that they are of the same attire, of the same sex? I know I cannot. Why shall they damn those souls to Tartarus for loving another?_

_I only thank the gods above for setting my soul into a world such as ours. I admit, this world is not without hate, is not without cruelty. But I am thankful that my soul shall not be damned by my own kind for the reason that I loved. It is such a silly thought if you must think about it._

_Forgive me, I am straying once more. But you already know how I am in my letters – I always stray._

_I beg of you – and our other siblings – to not waste your tears on me. It is not worth it (I know you will interpret my words as such else so I shall clear the intention behind that sentence – I am not saying I amn’t worthy, I am merely saying the circumstance I am put under is not worthy of your crying). Though I despise Alexander with all of my soul, his companions – Lafayette, a Frenchman, and Hercules Mulligan, a shapeshifter – are kind to me. They embrace me when I am engrossed in my own tears, they remind me of you – of you, Patsy and Harry; my dearest siblings. Their embraces are alike to yours._

_I miss you more than words can convey, Polly. I miss you all and all of South Carolina, even its dearest king._

_But I will not write in repeated grievances that I have expressed enough._

_I hope you are happy there, Polly. Do tell me how your suitor is._

_I wish you all the Fates’ good graces._

_Your brother,_

_Jacky Laurens_

John stares at the letter, his elbows resting on the mahogany, as he leans into his palms, helplessly wishing – _hoping_ – that somehow he may send this to his sister. He knows wishing – under Alexander’s high ceilings – are fruitless, hopeless. Alexander does not care for him – why shall he care of John’s wishes when he does not give a damn to the person behind them?

John blinks, forcing his welled-up tears to trail down his cheeks. His heart aches at the thought of his siblings – _is Polly’s mane still so untamable? Has Harry managed to control his brutish temper? Has Patsy finally controlled her tendency to cuss – akin to a sailor – when provoked?_

He only wishes for his siblings’ company. He is willing to bear the prescence of Alexander if it only means that he is permitted to write to his siblings… John crushes the little flutter of hope that rises in him. He reminds himself – _Alexander has stolen your family, who is to say that he shall allow you to write to them once more?_

He snaps out of his reverie, neatly folding the parchment into a square. John reaches for a book he has read the past hours, opening it with a flurry and landing on a random page, planting the letter there. He gently shuts the book and memorizes the title – The Misunderstanding of Opsis _._

He tucks the words in his mind, a whisper of promise.

**x**


	7. and how i've tried my best to run away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now they were all broken into hopeless pieces, waiting to decay into the sweet promise of death – all for the Fates’ entertainment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw // domestic abuse

“Patsy obsesses with her looks,” John says, unprovoked, catching Lafayette and Hercules by surprise, “She always tries to look like a…” his mind scrambles for a word, “…doll. Though, if I am to be frank, never does she act like one – she’s passionate, driven and outspoken. She seems perfect in front of a crowd – mild-mannered and poised, hair always twisted into something intricate – but when there is not a soul watching – aside from us, of course – she removes her mask. The mask of a doll.”

**x**

_“They say that Prince John has been taken by Eros himself!”_

_“…and to think that he has been taken by Zeus…”_

_“But the king himself allowed this; he hasn’t raised a finger to stop it…”_

_“…adores his son, does he not?”_

_“A royal family truly loving each other?”_

_“…have heard a joke funnier than that.”_

_“But the Prince John apparently is offering himself for the betterment of…”_

_“No! That is not true – it is Poseidon who has taken away our prince…”_

_“…the poor family.”_

Patsy stands tall in front of the buzzing crowd, each head turning to gaze at their princess, and she takes a moment to remind herself that – in front of her citizens – she isn’t Patsy; she is their Princess Martha. When their eyes are on her, she is not an outspoken woman whose words are of pirates – she is a delicate flower, an accessory more than anything else. She wills herself to stay quiet, to keep the curses in her mouth, as she continues to listen the gossip spread like a plague.

She walks to the gates of the palace – of faded voices and glassy memories – with her head held up high and her husband – David Ramsay – walking by her side, his arms wrapped around her. She wants to pry off his lingering hands – feels as if they are chaining her down – but restraints herself from doing so, biting the insides of her cheeks.

“Do not worry, darling,” she hears David say beside her and she wishes she could comply under his words but she worries anyway, “We are close to your home. You won’t have to listen to these… peasants’ incessant gossip.”

Patsy nods – though, in her actions, she does the opposite. She tries to stall her arrival at the gates, trying to listen what her kingdom thinks of her family, but David forces her to walk his pace. She bites her tongue repeatedly, relishing in the metallic taste of blood, as she tries to constrain the lion threatening to rip out of her. She thinks of John and curses herself.

The face of John – her poor, poor brother lost in the cruel game of fate – only makes her angrier. Her brother does not deserve this – the slander of his name. It is her brother who faces the monster as they breathe; it is her brother that suffers under the wrath of the monsters, not _them._ She grits her teeth in anger and forces her feet on the ground to the point she can almost feel the cold stone beneath her thin doll shoes. She continues to hear their voices whisper words that they had _no_ right to whisper about. She almost turns around, almost let them taste her rage, but David senses her movements and tugs her closer.

She _growls_ and David jumps in surprise; she doesn’t blame him. She is a petite woman with looks worthy of Aphrodite’s praise. So, when such a guttural sound pasts her pink, petal lips, David can only stare in shock, freezing in his steps.

But he is quick to regain his composure.

He walks faster, dragging her along with him, and his grip is rougher. Patsy knows she’s made him angry. She is a South Carolinian princess – she isn’t meant to resist and respond. She’s meant to stay quiet; she’s meant to act as a doll – unmoving. She isn’t meant to do _that._

But by gods was she willing to do it once more if it came to her family, to her siblings, to her _Jacky._

When they past the gates, she is pushed inside and she almost loses her step, almost falls into the ground, but she stands still. She turns to face David and –

A hand meets her cheek.

She doesn’t gasp. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t squirm.

She stays still, stands her ground, like a doll. She stays silent, gaze fixed on the ground beneath her.

Like a doll.

He grips on her chin, forces her gaze upwards. She is pliant under him.

“Darling,” he drawls out, his voice hushed, “I have been tolerating your grieving more than necessary and I have been kinder than necessary. This is how you show your gratitude?”

She doesn’t answer. _Like a doll._

“You don’t get to disrespect me like that,” and she resists the urge to spit on his face, “You don’t get to do anything of that sort and especially with _me._ Understand that, sweetheart?”

She nods.

He grips her chin harder. A warning, a promise.

“Yes, I do understand, David,” she forces out, “I understand. I do. May you please release me now?”

He does. He spits on her.

She attempts to blink the tears away. She fails.

“Clean yourself before you enter,” David says, walking, “I will greet your father.”

 _Run to him,_ she seethes in her mind, _you monsters are all alike._

She attempts to compose herself, to look doll like once more – she wipes away the tears and spit from her face and tightens her braid. She stands straighter, taller, and stronger. Clearing her throat, she turns around, surprising herself at the emptiness of the courtyard – must have been why David didn’t wait until they reached their bedchambers, why he was so upfront with her where any eyes could’ve seen it.

She bites her lips, thinks of her siblings and that doesn’t stop her tears from falling. She missed Jacky so much – she should have fought for him harder, should have offered him a chance to run away from this… oblivion of a kingdom. She missed seeing the smiles on her siblings’ faces – her sweet, loving siblings. Her reprieve of this Tartarus of a life. Now they were all broken into hopeless pieces, waiting to decay into the sweet promise of death – all for the Fates’ entertainment.

Dolls. They were all dolls for the Fates to play, for the gods to laugh at.

She shivers. She wipes away her tears. She smiles.

Like the perfect doll.

She walks to the palace, her nails digging into her palms, drawing blood.

She decides she loves the feel of her breaking – reminds her she’s not a doll.

A doll.

The word repeats in her head and she digs harder, certain of the red blood seeping through the pale flesh. She smiles. _Not the perfect doll anymore._

**x**

“Harry knows everything to know, does everything to do,” John fondly smiles when Lafayette and Hercules listen to him eagerly like children being told of their most adored tales, like John brews gold out of his words, “He tries too hard, too much to fit the picture of the perfect prince, the perfect everything. But when he lets himself free of his responsibilities – not too often, if I must say – he resembles a child. Too full of energy, too playful. I think it is because he grew up too fast, forced out of his childhood too soon.”

**x**

Harry doesn’t bother to leave his room anymore.

He doesn’t think he has the energy to do so. He’s wasted all his energy into tears, into wishing Jacky were still here, into wishing he tried _harder._

He is lazily sprawled on his bed, the warm duvet around him, as he lifelessly stares at the ceiling above, reveling in the darkness – in the unknown of his room. In the darkness, he is unaware of the moments that go by – he’s unaware of the words, of the voices, of the whispers. He’s unaware of the monsters that creep beneath him, under his bed and behind his closet. He’s unaware and he thinks this is pure _bliss._

Harry mindlessly reaches out for an open bottle of wine, sitting up, as he chugs on it, almost choking on the liquid. He carelessly throws the bottle on the floor, hearing the pleasant cracking of the glass, and smiles sluggishly. He doesn’t bother to wipe away the remnants of alcohol dripping down his chin.

He slumps against his pillows, his head throbbing. He shuts his eyes and is met with the familiar darkness. _Not so much of change in scenery_ , he thinks.

He tries to force out the face of his brother. It stays frozen in his mind and he groans, eyes opening. His brother’s face – a reminder that he is a failure of a brother, of a prince, of a son. He is a failure to all who expects of him. For once, he ignores the urge to sweep in and mend every broken glass he’s come across with; for once, he stays still on his bed, drowning in alcohol and tears.

 _What a prince you are,_ a voice inside him sneers and he clenches his hand around the soft duvet, _you berate your father of his mistakes when it is you who is drowning in self-pity._

He ignores it.

Harry sinks deeper into the warm mattress, wet with sweat and alcohol and gods know what else, and exhales, forcing the breath out of him. He aimlessly reaches out for another bottle, grasping unto solid surfaces until he’s felt the familiar shape of the bottles, and brings it toward himself, flinching when he spills it all over himself.

He groans when the liquid drenches him. He throws the bottle away, careless of the way it shatters all over the place. He ignores the uncomfortable way the fabric sticks into his skin – rather, he wraps the drenched duvet around him, sinking down into the pillow as he wills himself to sleep.

Sleep. His only escape – where his thoughts can’t touch him.

His door bursts open, the daylights soaking his darkened room.

“Your highness!”

Harry whines, pulling a pillow atop his face, and shouts a _get out_ through it. He knows it’s incomprehensible. He doesn’t care.

“Your highness, the king wishes for your arrival to dinner,” and Harry huffs.

“The king may wish for my demise for all I care,” he retorts and he knows it is childish and immature and – for once, for _once_ in his life – he doesn’t care. He doesn’t ache to retract his words, to tuck it back in his throat.

For once, he doesn’t.

“Your highness, the king –”

“Give me a reason worth of my leaving the bed, then I shall,” Harry says, “But you must find a reason first.”

He hears the servant prattling under his breath and breathes of relief when the door shuts close, diminishing any traces of light. He pulls the pillow off his face and lets himself stare into the darkness, only the mere outlines of walls in his vision. He tries to drown in the darkness, in the nothingness, with eyes wide open. He doesn’t blink until tears are prickling in the corner of his eyes.

A trail of tears trickles down his cheeks. He blinks, taking a deep breath, and runs his hand over his hair, his mind whispering, screaming _pathetic, pathetic, pathetic._ He doesn’t try to fight the voice anymore, he lets it roam through his head, terrorize his memories.

He’s crying freely now. He’s sobbing. Whimpering. Whining. Blubbering.

_Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic._

It’s all he is.

**x**

“Polly is the gentlest soul you are to meet,” John feels his heart tug as he reminisces his moments with his dearest sister, a nostalgic air around him, “She is too kind, too honest. Quite a combination, is she not? There is none that she will hold back from you – ask how you look to her, she shall say ‘like a beast.’ It is the most I adore about her. My dearest sister.”

**x**

“Polly, are you alright?” Charles gently asks – considering, caring – and Polly thinks she doesn’t deserve such care, “You seem out of it. We may retreat to your chambers if you are not in the mood.”

Polly shakily returns his kind smile, the corner of her lips tugging. She swallows a lump, taking Charles’ hand in hers, and shakes her head.

“I am fine, sir,” she forces the words out of her throat, out of breath, “You do not need to worry for me. We ought to spend time together if we are to marry.”

Charles nods, understanding, and does not ask any more questions. They walk around the garden in silence and it takes all of Polly’s strength to thwart the urge to crumple down the ground in tears. She breathes in the aroma of fresh grass and fragrant flowers, a calm to her storm – it reminds her of Jacky.

The image of Jacky – in the emerald frock, tear-stained and sobbing as he faces the sky, Apollo’s morning sun streaking his face – paints itself in her maze of a mind. She is quick to trample the image, reducing it into sharp shards that disappear into the blackness of her mind. She refrains herself from thinking of him – tries to focus on the way Charles’ hand feels in her, the way Charles walks, the way he gazes at her.

She fails.

To her, Charles’ sweet eyes merely reminds her of what she is to become – a shell of his person. She will have to reduce herself to an adornment – a pretty thing that he shall soon show off to the world. A voiceless pretty thing, a mindless shell, a heedless shadow.

That is all that waits for her.

That is all what becomes of her.

That is her legacy.

She almost bursts into tears at the unfairness of it. For all she is, for all her worth, all that she shall be seen as is the wife of Sir Charles Pinckney.

She talks before she can think.

“Do you ever wonder, sir?”

She chews on her tongue as she waits for his response.

“What do you mean by that, my lady?”

My lady. A claim.

She clears her throat and carefully picks out her words.

“The unfairness of it all,” at Charles’ curious gaze, she continues to speak, “I am a lady, sir, and that is all I shall ever be.”

She expects a scolding from Charles – perhaps even a blow to remind her of her place – but he keeps his mouth shut, stays silent, wordlessly inviting her to continue. She opens her mouth to speak but the words don’t come. She clamps her lips together and puts on a charming smile.

“Ah, never mind all those I have said, sir,” she speaks, “I was not thinking. I apologize. May we retreat to our quarters now, sir? This walk is tiring me.”

“Yes, of course, Mary,” she almost flinches at the way his voice curls around her name – she loathed to be called that, “You know, my lady, I have heard rumors of yourself – how you never fail to let yourself out in the open, how you always voiced out what you think. But this is not the lady I was promised of.”

Her eyebrows furrow.

“I believe the rumors are mistaken, sir.”

“Please call me by my name,” Charles asks of her.

“As you wish, Charles.”

Relief washes over his face – as if he didn’t expect her to heed to his wishes – and Polly aches to ask him why. But she does not. 

She does not.

**x**

“Your siblings sound lovely,” Lafayette says, heart yearning for more tales of John’s siblings, a wistful look over his face, “I – we… we are sorry, John.”

John does not need to ask what for – he knows; he can hear it from Lafayette’s forlorn tone, he can see it from Hercules’ downcast eyes. He merely hums and it is not an acceptance of their apologies. He knows he does not have that in him – he cannot easily forgive. He may try to but he knows he will not. Lafayette and Hercules have stolen him – away from his family – merely to please Alexander. John nearly snorts; what is so special with Alexander – aside from his gift of words which, John is certain, is not as great as they say it to be – that Lafayette and Hercules plead their loyalty to him? Perhaps that is one question John desires to remain unanswered. He does not want to hear the justification of Alexander and his attitude.

“Do you two have family?” John asks when the silence becomes too unbearable. When is it not?

Lafayette and Hercules share a look. John feels as if he is intruding.

“We have each other,” Hercules speaks, his voice vulnerable – so unlike from the Hercules John has gotten to know the past few days, “We are enough.”

“Does that include Alexander?”

“Yes, _mon arbre_ ,” Lafayette’s eyes are loving as he says it and John can only wonder how one person could hold so much love in their eyes, “Perhaps you could be a part of that.”

“Perhaps,” but John knows he will never be.

“Your father –” John tenses up at the mention of King Henry, “– must have went to the Oracle. Otherwise, you wouldn’t’ve been there – ready for us to take away – and in a dress, nonetheless.”

“Yes,” John answers shortly, “How were you planning to capture me if I weren’t in the cliff?”

Lafayette snickers, earning a smack from Hercules.

“Why? What is so funny?”

He looks at them, curious, when Lafayette bursts into giggles.

“You see, John –”

“Don’t you dare, Lafayette,” Hercules warns, his face embarrassed and John almost laughs. Hercules rarely gets embarrassed – he is as shameless as any man can get.

“Hush, mon amour,” Lafayette faces John excitedly, “You see, John, if your father hadn’t gone to the oracle, capturing you would have been a long, tedious process.”

If his father wouldn’t have gone to the Oracle, he could have been with his siblings longer.

He frowns.

“Hercules planned to shapeshift into a woman –” he hears Hercules groan in embarrassment, “– and seduce you.”

John doesn’t bother to hold back his amusement. He clutches his stomach as he doubles in laughter, tears springing in the corner of his eyes.

“Oh – my – gods,” John chokes out between his giggles, “Hercules really meant to do just that?”

“Yes,” Lafayette nods eagerly, “Even planned the dress and everything.”

A moment of silence hovers upon them but soon the room howls in uncontrollable laughter.

“Dear gods,” John manages out, wiping away the tears that have managed to spring out, “You are lucky my father had gone to the Oracle.”

“Why so?” asks Hercules.

“I am not the most interested in women –” John says, nervously fidgeting, fearing Hercules and Lafayette would somehow judge him for his lack of interest, “– in the romantic sense.”

“Ah, as am I, _mon arbre_ ,” Lafayette glances at Hercules, “Not when Hercules is here.”

“Likewise, my love.”

John almost coos.

“Did Alexander approve of your plan?” John asks, almost guilty for breaking the moment between the lovers, “I absolutely loathe to talk about him but I just had to ask. He doesn’t seem to be the sharing kind.”

“Ah, so you admit you are our Alexander’s?”

Red tints his cheeks at the realization. He is quick to jump to his defense.

“No and I shall never be,” he snarls, “But I am sure your Alexander is under that impression.”

“Well, we never really informed Alexander of our plan,” Lafayette admits, albeit hesitantly, “He simply asked of us to do whatever it takes – seducing you is a part of that, I suppose.”

“He is pathetic,” John spits out, vision clouding in anger, “He sends you two to capture me yet he acts as if it he who has done so! He is one pathetic, cowardly, disgusting and humiliating excuse of a –”

It seems the Fates truly despise him.

Right into his rant, Alexander walks into the room, hands lazily tucked into his coat’s pocket as he slowly saunters his way to them. Instinctively, John shuts his lips.

“What?” Alexander says, feigning innocence, as he settles down beside Lafayette, “Do not stop on my account. Continue on.”

John stays silent and drops his gaze, angrily staring on the ground.

“Come on, doll,” John takes a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm, “I am a pathetic, cowardly, disgusting and humiliating excuse of a…?”

Despite Alexander’s prompting, John doesn’t burst.

“Seems to me I make you speechless, doll,” he can hear the smugness in Alexander’s tone and thinks enough is enough.

He breathes in and looks up, meeting Alexander’s eyes.

Fire meets fire.

“Stop referring to me as a mindless toy,” John snaps, glaring, ignoring the way Lafayette and Hercules awkwardly shifts their gaze, “I am not a doll. Just because you force me to wear these hideous frocks, does not mean that I am being subjected to a toy.”

“I merely call you as you look,” Alexander easily answers, calmness oozing off him, and John seethes because how can he be so calm, “Do not fault me for doing so.”

“If that’s how it is –” John says, heart pounding, “– then shall I call you beast?”

Lafayette gasps. Hercules sighs. Alexander –

Alexander stays motionless in his position, his gaze calculating and sharp. Alexander stares into John’s eyes as if plucking each secret his eyes offer. John stares in equal force.

Suddenly, Alexander stands from the sofa and walks over to John.

“Call me whatever you like, Laurens,” he feels victorious when Alexander calls him by his name, cockily smirking – but Alexander is quick to wipe off his smirk with his damned words, “Continue acting that way and perhaps I shall lock you in your room without anything to entertain yourself with – no quills or parchments to write letters to your siblings which I will make sure to never be sent, Jacky.”

He knows?

John feels humiliation flushing through him. Enough is enough.

He stands from his position and find himself facing Alexander, chest-to-chest, pleasantly surprised that he is taller than this beast of a man – who simply cocks his eyebrows in anticipation. John raises his hand and –

Slap.

His hand burns from the intensity of the contact, though he pays it no mind. Alexander’s face is tilted sideward and John has to bite his tongue to keep himself from spitting on his cheeks.

_You are still a prince._

“Don’t dare to ever call me that once more,” John seethes, “You do not have the right, you hideous beast! Kill me! Use me! Whatever the fuck you want to do with me, do it –”

He almost gasps at his own wording. He has never spoken so… unprincely before.

“– just never let my siblings’ name come out of your pathetic mouth, you cruel bastard!” John is shouting now, “Damn you to Tartarus! Only the gods know how much you deserve it, beast!”

Alexander looks at him, his cheeks flushed, and before he can even attempt to speak, John runs away from him, from them.

Far, far away.

**x**


	8. i'll be idle in my ideals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their voices are a mere whisper now. He doesn’t hear them through the sound of the waves crashing against each other. John is lost in a trance – the sea seems to be calling for him.

“ _Mon nounours_ , will you hold me?”

Hercules sends him an incredulous look, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips a thin line, as he paces around the room. Lafayette doesn’t bother to meet his eyes; rather, staring at Alexander – who’s still standing from where he was facing John moments ago, dazed.

“What for?”

“I might not be able to hold myself and –” he walks to Alexander and hits him on the head, taking the latter by surprise, finally snapping out of his reverie, “– hit this foolish man.”

He unapologetically hits him again.

“What in Zeus’ name, Lafayette!” Alexander responds, stepping away from Lafayette, his forehead creased, “Do you not think I have been hit enough?”

“No,” Lafayette all but growls, raising his hand to hit Alexander once more – who only steps further away from him, “Frankly, you deserve more.”

Hercules swoops in, wrapping an arm around Lafayette’s – whose lips are twisted into an intimidating scowl as he stares at Alexander – middle and whispers calming nothings to his ears, much to the relief of Alexander.

“Love, calm down,” Hercules whispers, rubbing his back in soothing circles, “Anger will achieve nothing.”

Lafayette breathes in and pulls away from Hercules, smiling at him as he turns to face Alexander.

“ _Mon petit lion_ , you must look for John,” Alexander opens his mouth to protest but Lafayette merely sends a pointed stare his way, a cautionary, “I know he is unable to escape this island but you must look for him – who knows what he will come across. While _mon amour_ and I rest on our bed, you shall be looking for the prince. Do not come back until he is with you.”

Alexander clenches his fist in anger, refusing to meet Lafayette’s eyes. He grunts but he walks away soundlessly, leaving the room with a bang of the door.

“I do not get him, _chéri_ ,” Lafayette sighs, closing his eyes tiredly, as he slumps down the sofa, “Once he saw the prince, he is all happy and sweet – but now that the prince is in his grasp, he continues on to be this blustering idiot of a man. Were we mistaken? Did we ruin John’s life for nothing?”

“We…” Hercules shakes his head, voice faint, easily fading into the air, and Lafayette can see he tries to hold on to the justification of their actions – to finally end their Alexander’s torment. Hercules gives in with an exhale, sitting down next to Lafayette, and burying his head on the crook of Lafayette’s shoulders. “Are we selfish, Lafayette? For what we’ve done?”

“Perhaps,” Lafayette says, cradling Hercules in his arms, “But is it really considered selfishness if we had done it for the benefit of another man?”

“And at the expense of an innocent soul,” Lafayette’s heart clenches because he knows _it’s true_ , “We are selfish souls, love, but – in this world where we are left to fend for ourselves in the cruel game of the Fates – who is not?”

_Who is not?_

The three words continue to echo through Lafayette’s mind.

**x**

John relishes to feel the ocean breeze gently graze over his skin, the salty smell of the ocean filling his senses, as he tries to lose himself to Poseidon’s sea. He digs his feet further to the sand, trying to focus the way the grains feel between his toes. He tries to shake away his thoughts – thoughts that would leave him to his doom ( _as if he hasn’t already_ , a voice says) – and tries to focus on his sister’s fade voice in his mind. He shakes his head, heart pounding, as his eyes rake over the sea – the endless sea, the water obscure from the darkness, as its waves slowly rolls over the sand in tranquil patterns. John _wonders_ – if he were to give himself to the sea, to bury himself in the cold water – just how far the sea could take him?

 _“…if you swear us your heart that you will never try to do that once more,”_ Harry’s voice echoes from the back of his mind, “… _my_ _brother, I hope you know.”_

John’s lips trembles as tears cascade down his cheeks at the memory of his dear brother. He _missed_ his siblings, too much to be expressed in words. He chokes on his sobs, trying to muffle them with his lips.

_“Do not give in to your fears. Be strong, Jacky, and so shall we.”_

_“Please… take care of yourself there.”_

_“…in your stubborn mind that we shall always be here for you.”_

Their voices are a mere whisper now. He doesn’t hear them through the sound of the waves crashing against each other. John is lost in a trance – the sea seems to be calling for him. He steps closer, the sand sticky on his feet, and feels as if he has found his very own Elysium when he feels the waves against his feet. He sighs, the lustrous light of the moon reflecting on the sea, and he wonders – wonders and wonders and wonders until there is no thought left in him. _How far shall I go to have the light between my hands?_

He doesn’t bother to lift his dress to his knees, letting it float around him as he walks deeper into the ocean, the waves pulling him in.

He walks and walks and walks until he is waist deep into the ocean. He takes a deep breath, reveling the familiar, salty scent of the sea. _Smells like home –_

 _– wherever that is,_ a bitter part of his mind adds.

He’s struggling to walk now with the strong force of the ocean and the dress moving along the sea wills wherever the sea wills it to. He almost stumbles but he holds himself upright, willing himself to hold his ground, to walk until the waves roll over his head.

John sinks deeper and deeper into the sea, the voices in his head fading away into an oblivion.

Moments away, he finds himself closing his eyes, taking a deep breath, the water rising to his chin, as he plunges himself down the ocean.

At first, he is surrounded by darkness. Cotton balls clouding his vision and faint ringing in his ears.

_“Jacky.”_

His mother’s voice.

**x**

Alexander feels guilt eating up his conscience and that’s a _first_ – Alexander hardly feels guilty for anyone or anything. Not his life, not his body, not his problem – a motto he’s associated with himself the moment he has learned to talk.

But when he remembers the look on John’s face as he uttered those words of his family, his heart twists in guilt and an unsettling feeling washes over him.

He nervously chews on the flesh between his teeth as he runs around the island, calling for John’s name. His heart pounds when all he is met with is silence.

He feels anxiety settle deep into his gut when he scours the windy fields and still no sight of Laurens. He runs his hand over his hair, his fingers untangling his dark strands, as he continues to call out John’s name in repeated melodies.

_Think, Alexander, think._

A sudden memory of John flashes in his head – John, in his night clothes, retreating to the ocean after a heated confrontation with ministers from England. He remembers watching John swim in the ocean, whirling in the sea in an entrancing dance, and how captivated he felt and –

_Oh._

Realization dawns upon him and he runs to the ocean, running with all his might.

When the ocean floods his view, panic courses through him when he catches sight of footsteps in the sand yet the scenery is left blank of John. He starts pulling the ends of his hair as his eyes rake over the ocean, trying to catch a glimpse of John’s curly mess of a hair beneath the waves.

Alexander curses, running to the ocean and jumps with no hesitance. He quickly swims to the deeper end and submerges himself deeper, his vision blurring with sea water.

He chokes on his breath when he finally sees John floating around aimlessly, eyes closed.

_Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck –_

Alexander quickly swims to him and pulls John with him, gasping for breath as he struggles to hold John’s body against his. He presses his two fingers against John’s neck, trying to look for signs of life.

_No pulse._

“Fuck,” Alexander breathes out, his voice faint against the sound of the sea.

He swims to the shore, dragging John’s cold body along with him, and wills himself to move _faster._ When the sea is shallow enough for him to stand, he does just so and scoops John’s body in his arms, one arm wrapped around his shoulders and the other tucked under his knees. Despite the dragging of the sand, Alexander makes his way to the shore, ignoring the way sand sticks to his body, and runs northward, nearly slipping from his pace.

**x**

“Peggy, be a dear and hand me that flower, will you?”

A woman clad in a vibrant yellow – Margarita Schuyler, better known as Peggy – turns round to face her sister, her hands on her hips, as she defiantly shakes her head, an eyebrow cockily raised. Her sister – Eliza – rolls her eyes and turns to Angelica instead.

“Your sister is acting like a rascal,” she says, her voice whiny. as she faces Angelica.

“She’s your sister too, ‘Liza,” Angelica responds, amused, as she fixes her gaze on Peggy, “However, you are being unnecessarily brattish this day. Why so, Margarita?

“Call me that one more time, I shall make sure there are no flowers in this damned island left for you two to fawn over,” at her words, Angelica and Eliza clamp their lips, almost instinctively, “I do not see what is it about flowers that fascinate you both so much. They are merely what they are – flowers.”

“Oh, my precious sister, do not speak of such nonsense once more,” Eliza says, “Hardly do we see such beauty under the ocean.”

“Alright, alright,” Peggy raises her hands in surrender, acquiescing to Eliza’s request, and leans over to pluck the amaryllis, “If it pleases you as much.”

“Thank you, dear Peggy,” Eliza says when Peggy hands her the flowers, “Oh, this shall make such a wonderful addition to my collection. It’s just so beautiful!”

Peggy and Angelica fondly watch Eliza clamor about flowers.

“Indeed, ‘Liza,” Angelica agrees but worry paints her face when she glances out their cottage, “But we must head back to the ocean. It is nearing dawn almost.”

“Aye, you exaggerate too much, Angie,” says Peggy, looking out as well, “Barely is it almost. Artemis’ moon has just risen.”

“I know but we mustn’t stay too long here,” Angelica says, staring pointedly at her sisters – who both awkwardly avoid her gaze, “You both already know what happens when we do. We don’t want to risk that once more, do we?”

They shake their heads, albeit meekly. Angelica smiles, pleased.

When silence drapes over them, they attend to their own pleasures – Eliza daintily adorns her hair with vibrantly colored petals, Peggy counts the stars unapologetically and Angelica proceeds to engross herself with another book. The air around them is calm, the peace established as they busy themselves for their desires. What they do now, they cannot in the sea.

Though, their peace is short-lived.

In a sudden, Alexander Hamilton bursts through the door, a frantic look on his face, catching the sisters in surprise.

“Alexander,” Eliza yelps, eyes wide, as she watches Alexander carry a body, “Who… what – are you alright? Is that boy alright? What happened?”

She walks to Alexander and stares at the man in his arms. Freckled face, damp curls and himself adorned in an attire she is sure not meant for men like him. But she merely shrugs in her head – she is a nereid, who is she to say such of the mortals? She, almost in instinct when she does not see the boy’s chest heave with breaths, presses her fingers to his neck, checking for the pulse. Her eyes widen in shock when there is not any.

“Alexander, what happened to him?”

“He –” Alexander’s voice trembles, “– tried to drown himself.”

Horrified gasps filled the room.

“Whatever for?” Angelica asks, concern taking over he face as she scours the boy, with Peggy trailing after her.

“Please,” Alexander pleads, his eyes wildly desperate, “Please. Heal him. I – I shall explain all that needs to be explained. Just… just heal him. _Please._ ”

Eliza nods without hesitance. She gestures for Alexander to follow her – which he does so – to the tiny chambers, only one unframed bed in the room. Alexander immediately sets John down the mattress, biting on his nails as he watches him so.

“What is his name?” asks Eliza, kneeling beside the bed, as she traces the boy’s soft face. _He is such a beauty_ , she notes.

“John,” Alexander answers hurriedly, “Will you be able to heal him? Is it too late? Eliza –”

“Alexander, calm yourself,” Eliza says softly, “He will be fine. It is only to his luck that I have not used my healing water as of yet.”

She can hear Alexander sighing of relief. She furrows her eyebrows.

“Alexander, I shall take care of him –” Eliza says, standing up to face the frenzied Alexander, “– but you must leave first.”

Alexander meets her eyes – fear and doubt deep in the violet hues – but he nods anyway, walking away the room reluctantly and sparing John a last glance before he shuts the door.

Eliza can only wonder in her mind – _who is John?_

But she casts her questions aside. She crouches down to the bed and unlocks her locket tied around her neck. When it is in her hands, she carefully opens the locket and dips a fingertip to the water, careful and slow and steady.

When the tips touch the water, Eliza spreads it around John’s forehead, glowing and glistening under her fingers.

Eliza starts to chant as she continues to spread the healing water on John’s skin.

**x**

“Who is he, Hamilton?” Angelica proceeds to ask the moment Alexander leaves the chambers be, her arms crossed and her eyes scrutinizing, “I do not recognize him. Why is he so special to you? Why did he try to drown himself? Why is –”

“Angie, please,” Peggy warns, placing a hand on Angelica’s shoulders, her gaze sharp, “Let the poor man breathe. One question at a time.”

Alexander lets out an exhausted exhale, raking a hand over his hair, and smiling gratefully when Peggy hands him a cup of water. He accepts it and chugs on it in one gulp. He places the glass on the table nearby and wipes away the droplets of water sneaking away his lips. He faces the sisters and takes a deep breath once more, cracking his knuckles, as he prepares himself to answer their thousand questions.

“John Laurens of South Carolina,” Alexander finally forces out, his voice scratchy as he does so, and Angelica almost feels guilty, “My fate.”

“How do you know?” Peggy asks.

“Apollo himself told me,” Alexander says, “Our lives are interconnected as our strings are intertwined. The Fates cannot separate us even if they wanted to.”

“How did you two meet?”

Alexander’s cheeks color. Angelica and Peggy share a curious look – hardly could anyone make Alexander flustered.

“Perhaps when I found of his existence, I myself had gotten too excited.”

Angelica’s eyes widen.

“You… you kidnapped him?” Peggy says in disbelief, “As in Eros and Psyche style?”

“Goodness, Alexander,” Angelica breathes out, incredulity laced with her words, “Please tell me you treat him well the very least – poor boy must have been so terrified.”

“I…” Alexander’s usually soulful words – now unsure and fragile – wilts into nothingness and Angelica purses her lips when Alexander struggles to let the right words out of his mouth. He opens and closes his mouth, no words leaving, as if he forces them down his throat the moment they itch to leave. “I am shamed to admit that I am the reason why he has drowned himself.”

Peggy chokes on her water. Angelica licks over her lips.

“Alexander, you capture this man for he is your fate yet you treat him so horribly that the poor man has tried to take his own life,” Peggy says, perfectly vocalizing Angelica’s thoughts – who still is to talk of this, “Are you thinking properly, Alexander? I fear you are not.”

“A better question –” Peggy continues to talk, her fiercely drilling into Alexander’s, “– are you thinking at _all_?”

Alexander flinches.

“Peggy, that is enough,” Angelica’s tone is firm as she stares at Peggy, a wordless conversation between the two sisters, and starts to speak once more when Peggy caves in to Angelica’s request of her, “Alexander, I suggest you fix that head of yours – it is not making the right decisions. You take this man from his home yet you… what even prompted that attitude of yours?”

“He resented me,” Alexander reveals, his eyes stuck on the ground, “I know what you two are thinking of – who wouldn’t if I had taken them away from their family. I felt ashamed and embarrassed – my fate loathes all of me. So, I did what my mind thought logical – mirror his attitude.”

“Pallas Athena!” Angelica curses, rubbing her head as she stares at Alexander, “Alexander, you _must_ apologize the moment the poor boy wakes up. You shall make it the sincerest of apologies – you will shower him with your affections! I will – and nor will he – accept nothing less! Dear gods help you and that poor boy.”

“He has a name,” Alexander’s voice is a drizzle to the senses, low and faint, barely there, “Do use it.”

“Forgive us,” Angelica says and she almost winces at the volume of her voice. Peggy hums, agreeing as she carefully watches Alexander.

“He is beautiful, is he not?” he says it as a whisper.

“Truly, he is,” Peggy says before she steps closer to Alexander, taking his hands in hers, “Alexander, I know you have gone through too much and this concept of fate is new to you. I know you merely cope the way you always had and I know I cannot blame you for that. But do know that your words – no matter how much you do not mean it – shall always leave a scar on one’s heart. The gods fear you for your words – what more of the mortals?”

She grips on Alexander’s hands tighter.

“Peggy speaks of the truth, Alexander,” Angelica agrees, walking to them and resting her hand on Alexander’s arm, “You truly do have a way with words but you must learn how to control that gift. You cannot go saying all that your heart aches to say and especially if it shall wound one’s soul. At times, you must learn how to ignore your pride.”

“Perhaps,” Alexander whispers softly, his voice only a shadow of what he truly is, “I fear I do not deserve his forgiveness. I have said too much to be forgiven.”

“We all have,” the voice is new and it is Eliza’s – who had just entered the room with a smile on her face, taking them by surprise, “But whether or not you deserve forgiveness is not for you to decide, Alexander. It’s is John’s.”

She walks to them.

“John is a loving soul –” Alexander gulps at that, “– from what I have seen. True, he does not easily forgive but he is a loving soul. He knows how to love – I think he is exactly who you need, Alexander. But his soul aches to be loved too.”

Alexander doesn’t speak a response. Eliza continues on.

“Forgiveness is not given but earned, Alexander,” she says, “You have stolen John from his most beloved ones. It is not easy to forgive something as such that. All you need to be is patient and kind.”

“Not exactly my strongest suits,” Alexander jokes.

“I know, Alexander –” Eliza says, “– but you must try. For him.”

She gestures to the door.

Alexander gulps but he nods, nonetheless. Eliza can still see the reluctance in his eyes and she sighs.

“How is he, anyways?” Peggy asks, breaking the tension away, “Is he soon to be awake?”

“No, it will take time for him to wake,” at Alexander’s groan, Eliza raises her eyebrows and tilts her head, “That’s where you shall start being patient and kind. Tend to him as he sleeps, Alexander, for souls like his still see the world of the living even in deep sleep.”

Alexander opens his mouth to protest, Eliza assumes, but it dies down his throat. He runs his tongue over his lower lip as he prepares himself to speak.

“If I must.”

**x**


	9. on the shadow by your side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gasps, never seeing the man so… weak and vulnerable, so unlike from the Alexander John has gotten to know the past few weeks. His heart strings tug when he sees Alexander struggle to hold himself together.

“Alexander, you must sleep.”

He continually ignores Lafayette; rather, he shifts his attention to the sleeping John. Alexander gently wipes away the beading sweat on John’s forehead with the cloth in his hands. He hears Lafayette sigh behind him. He rolls his eyes, annoyance creeping unto him, as he dabs the cloth on John’s cheeks.

“Alexander,” he hears Lafayette call again, “You truly must sleep.”

“I am tending to John, Marie-Joseph,” Alexander tells him, “And I shall not tire to remind you that – because of me – he has almost lost his life. I owe him this.”

“I know, _mon ami_ ,” Lafayette puts his hand on his shoulder, coaxing him from John, “You owe him this and so much more but I fear you will not live long enough to do so.”

Alexander swiftly turns to face Lafayette and gives him an incredulous look.

“I am immortal, Paul,” Alexander deadpans, facing John once more as he dabs the cloth on his neck, “I cannot die.”

Lafayette crosses his arms, eyebrows creased in annoyance.

“Allow me for the theatrics,” Lafayette mutters under his breath, “And please do not refer to me as one of my six names.”

“Only six?” Alexander exclaims in feigned surprise, earning an exasperated grunt from Lafayette, “Here I thought you had – at least – fifty. Forgive me, dear friend.”

“Hilarious,” Lafayette sticks his tongue out, blowing a raspberry, as he pushes Alexander, causing the latter to stumble out from his position, “You truly must sleep, Alexander.”

Alexander clumsily resumes his standing, limbs awkwardly pointed out as he tries to compose himself. Once he returns to a calmer state, he throws a glare over Lafayette’s – who merely shrugs, a mischievous innocence glinting in his eyes – way. He flicks Lafayette’s forehead and grabs the damp cloth from him, proceeding to tend to John once more.

“ _Petit lion_ , John will not die if you give yourself a day’s rest,” Lafayette’s voice is gentle now, faint and fading, and Alexander can hear him emit a stifled yawn, “You tend to the gods during daytime and to John during the night. There shall be someone who shall tend to you and that shall be me.”

“I do not need to be taken care of, Lafayette,” Alexander tries to pry Lafayette off him, stepping closer to John’s bed, “’You sound exhausted. You must retire. I am sure Hercules is looking for you.”

But Lafayette does not quiver and remains in his ground.

“Alexander, I am sure when the _sœurs_ said you must be kind and patient with our John –” Lafayette stares at John – who has been bedridden for the past few weeks and hardly has Alexander slept through any of it – and feels his heart clench, gut twisting, “– they did not mean you must devote your entire being to him as such a crazed worshipper would a god.”

“If I must be kind and patient with him, then I shall do it with all my might,” Alexander snaps, brushing away John’s curls, and Lafayette makes an odd noise as he watches Alexander, the moment oddly intimate, “Alexander Hamilton does not do anything superficially. If I must be kind, then I shall offer him my own lungs. If I must be hostile, then I shall do so until he is on his knees, begging me to stop. If I must be patient, then I shall unwaveringly wait for him until the day he tells me to stop. If I shall be _im_ patient –”

“Alright, Alexander, I understand,” Lafayette raises his hands in surrender, breathing a sigh of relief when Alexander halts his unprompted speech, “What I do not understand, however, is your sudden change of heart.”

Alexander tilts his head in confusion and Lafayette gestures to John with his eyes.

“I am sure the Schuyler sisters are not the sole reason behind all –” Lafayette makes a swirling motion with his fingers, indication to John and Alexander, “– _this._ What else prompted this?”

“Lafayette,” Alexander’s voice is grave, dark and heavy as if he carried the whole world’s burdens – which isn’t too far from the truth, “Because of my impatience, I have stolen away John from his kin merely to please myself. Because of my pride, I treated John with such atrocity that almost he loses his life. Because of _me_ , John is deep in slumber, unknown when he will be returned to consciousness, as life goes on. I think, in the very least, I owe him this.”

Lafayette smiles, tears stinging in the corner of his eyes, himself astound by the intensity of Alexander’s words. He pulls Alexander into a hug, pleasantly surprised when Alexander does not try to resist but merely melts into the touch.

“John is right, Lafayette,” Alexander whispers into his neck, so vulnerable that Lafayette grips him tighter, “I truly am a soulless beast. I do not deserve you or Hercules or the sisters – even John.”

“Never did I think the Alexander Hamilton would admit that,” Lafayette jokes, attempting to lighten the atmosphere, but when Alexander responds with a dry chuckle and a half-hearted smile, Lafayette rushes to his words, “ _Mon petit lion_ , we all have made mistakes in our life. There are those who regret them and there are those who learn from them – it is up to you to choose which road to take.”

When all he is met with is silence, Lafayette continues to speak.

“We all have a choice, Alexander,” Lafayette whispers into the night, “Please never forget that.”

They embrace in silence before Alexander speaks once more.

“I fear he will never forgive me, Laf,” Alexander says, voice shaky, and Lafayette is almost shocked that Alexander reveals such a vulnerable side to him, “I fear I do not deserve it.”

“That is not for you to say, Alexander,” Lafayette says, reminiscent to Eliza’s words, “It is not easy to forgive, Alexander. We cannot expect one – who we have hurt too much – to forgive us the moment we ask for it. That is not the way the world works, dear one.”

“I know, Lafayette,” Alexander pulls himself off Lafayette’s grasp, gaze now fixated on John’s sleeping form, “I have lived many years. I am not a soul of naivety. I know – too much, I fear – how the world works.”

“Then you know what you must do to earn John’s forgiveness.”

Alexander cocks an eyebrow, a smug air now surrounding him.

“I am already doing it, Yves.”

Lafayette playfully hits Alexander on the head, smiling when he grumbles in protest, as he starts to walk away from the bed.

“Your pride, Alexander,” Lafayette says, walking to the door and sparing Alexander one last glance before he takes his leave, “You must watch it, _mon lion._ ”

**x**

“Do you see now, my son?”

John stands awestruck, lips parted and eyes in wonder. He swallows, noticing his throat is dry, and faces his mother – his beautiful mother. Eleanor smiles kindly at her son, herself beautiful even in death, and points to Alexander – who continues to tend to his body – once more. He can see exhaustion in Alexander’s movements, his hands trembling and his steps swaying. John almost tries to speak to Alexander, then he remember that he is merely his soul – hidden from the human eyes.

“I…” John tries to speak but the words fade down his throat; he feels as if his breath has been knocked out of him and he tries again, “Mama, he hasn’t slept in how many weeks! Shouldn’t… shouldn’t we do something?”

“John, did you not say – when you first saw me – you loathed this man with all your being?” Eleanor says, a teasing tone in her words, eyes crinkling when she sees her son fumble for words, “You even said ‘ _If he cannot die, then I wish him to be tormented_ ,’ did you not?”

“Mama, that is not fair,” John murmurs, crossing his eyes, pouting and turning away like a petulant child, “Alexander was not the same person weeks ago. Weeks ago, he has kidnapped, insulted and shamed me and my whole being. You cannot blame me for my opinions of him… _weeks ago._ Now, he takes care of me as if the whole world depended on it! He is such a confusing man, mama!”

“Alas, all men are,” Eleanor says, leaning against her son, as they continue to watch Alexander tiredly and clumsily tend to John, “But your Alexander is trying –” she winces when Alexander nearly slips, wobbling on the ground, “– as much as he can without four weeks of slumber. He has sacrificed his own well-being for you.”

“Mama, he is not _my_ anything,” John points out, “And it is not like I asked of him to do that for me. It was his own choice to do so!”

“Indeed, you did not ask that of Alexander,” Eleanor states, “Yet he still does so. Is that not endearing, my dear?”

“Oh, alright,” John grumbles, rolling his eyes, “I must admit it is quite sweet of him… _but_ that does not erase all he has done and said to me! Because of him, mama, I am away from my dearest siblings! He does not even allow me to write to them!”

“Ask him again when you wake, Jacky,” Eleanor says, fondness in her eyes, “He is a prideful soul, my Jack. He shall not ask for forgiveness in blatant wording. He shall ask in actions as he does now.”

“Then shall I answer in actions rather than words?”

“Jacky, my sweet son,” Eleanor faces John, taking his face in her hands, cradling his cheeks and John leans into the touch, “You know the tales of Alexander – he has not lived an easy life and neither have you, my darling son. You both have gone through hurricanes. You both did not come out unscathed.”

She gazes at Alexander and her son, her heart aching as she does so.

“Oh, Jack, be patient with one another,” Eleanor whispers, sighing, “Teach him how to love then perhaps he will teach you how to forgive.”

John’s eyes flutter close and his lip quivers.

“My beautiful son,” Eleanor says, her finger tracing John’s cheekbones, “Do remember I shall always be with you. Always, my son, _always_.”

“As I, mama,” John says.

Eleanor’s embrace fades as her hands fall to her side. She gently smiles at her son, pressing a soft kiss on his forehead.

“I shall walk in the ocean,” Eleanor walks to the door, frowning when her son is still frozen in the ground, his eyes stuck to Alexander’s figure, and understanding dawns her as she watches them with a curious gaze, “Do you want to stay here, Jacky?”

“Only for a few moments, mama,” John says, distracted, “Then I shall join you.”

Eleanor nods – but the action is unseen by John – and leaves the room soundlessly.

When he makes it certain that his mother has left, John quickly checks his surroundings before he walks closer to Alexander, frowning as he watches the man tirelessly care for him. Guilt settles deep in his gut when he sees the dark circles under Alexander’s usually-bright eyes. His violet eyes are dark and hooded, messy locks falling from his ponytail and his steps faltering.

“I am sorry, John,” he hears Alexander whisper, “I wish I…”

But Alexander halts, lips between his teeth.

John gasps, never seeing the man so… weak and vulnerable, so unlike from the Alexander John has gotten to know the past few weeks. His heart strings tug when he sees Alexander struggle to hold himself together.

John squirms and swallows on his pride. No one would know, anyways.

He places a hand on Alexander’s shoulder – though the touch is not felt by him – and lets out a sigh, stepping closer to him until Alexander’s hair trickle his face. John leans down, nervously biting his lips as he does so.

Eyes closing, John pecks Alexander’s cheeks and – at the feel of Alexander’s skin against his lips – he nearly flinches. He scratches his lips, willing the feeling to go away.

“Sleep, Alexander,” John whispers gently and the effect is immediate, smiling when Alexander’s eyes flutter close. He takes a deep breath, sparing one last glance on his sleeping figure, and walks away, the feel of Alexander’s skin still on his mind. John nibbles on his lower lip, whispering to himself it never happened.

**x**

When they enter the room, shock dawns upon them at the sight.

Lafayette softly gasps into his palm. Hercules lets out an amused snort. Peggy nearly tumbles in laughter. Eliza breathes a relieved sigh. Angelica merely raises a curious brow.

They meet each other’s eyes, mischief dancing in each one.

“I believe it was _me_ he has last spoken to,” Lafayette speaks in a hushed tone, cockily smirking at Peggy’s frown and Angelica’s scoff, “I am sure it was my words that has finally convinced _mon petit lion_ to sleep.”

Lafayette wiggles his palm, taunting them all.

“Come on now, _mes amis_ ,” Lafayette sing-songs, bobbing his head sideways, “Do not be jealous because Alexander listens to I. Gracefully accept defeat and give what you owe – seven golden coins to me, Lafayette, the _winner_!”

“No need to boast right in front of our faces,” Peggy says, annoyed as Lafayette continues to do a victory dance, “Hold on… As long as I can remember, it was Angelica who talked to him two days ago! That was our agreement!”

Lafayette stops, cheeks tinting.

“I may have spoken to him last night…” Lafayette trails off awkwardly, hands fiddling behind his back, eyes on the floor as he tries to ignore his friends’ accusing gaze, “Oh, do not look at me like that! I cannot simply watch Alexander destroy himself. I am not heartless.”

“Alright,” Angelica says, “You do have a point, Lafayette, but you are not the winner of this bet, considering you broke one of the rules.”

“Oh, fine, I accept since you all seem so bent on reducing my success,” Lafayette snaps, “You all are just jealous for I can convince Alexander whose stand rivals that of a stone.”

“If that is the case, Lafayette, then should’ve you convinced Alexander to take his rest days ago?” Lafayette opens his mouth but no words come out, “Perhaps Alexander was too exhausted to deny himself any sleep any further – I know I would if I hadn’t slept in nearly four weeks.”

“Dear gods, Alexander never fails to astound me,” Hercules says, watching Alexander sleep on a chair, his head resting on John’s bed, “He shall be so horrid – at least enough to make you lose your own mind – then the next he shall be the kindest of souls.”

“I only assume Alexander did not mean to take things that far,” Eliza says, arms crossed, “He probably only did so in a shameful attempt to protect his own pride. Hopefully, he did not truly mean what he said to poor John.”

“Indeed,” Lafayette’s tone is thoughtful, “Before we took away John, our Alexander merely watched him from Olympus itself. Never have I seen him so starry eyed.”

“True,” Hercules says, “I do not know what prompted his treatment of John.”

“Perhaps he did not expect John to treat him with such hostility,” Eliza suggests, head tilted back, “Perhaps he had expected John to treat him as such Psyche did Eros.”

“Well, he was mistaken to do so of John,” Peggy spits out, “Psyche loathed her life – hardly did anyone attempt to court her and all those who adored her thought her too good. John – from what I’ve gathered from my talks with Alexander – adores his siblings, loves them with all his being. To be taken away from what you truly love, that is not the easiest thing.”

“I agree,” Angelica says, “Alexander is a prideful person. To be shamed by his own paramour’s words, of course, he shall reiterate.”

“They are not lovers, though,” says Lafayette.

“I figured,” Angelica responds, “But – with Alexander’s alarming devotion – I also figure they will be so. It is only a matter of time.”

The group comes down to a silence as they continue to watch Alexander and John, their stares alike to a hawk’s.

Alexander sleeps soundly, his head buried in his folded arms beside John’s messy crown of hair, the strands softly brushing against Alexander’s.

**x**

John does not bother to hide his offended gasp.

“A _matter_ of time?” John exclaims, unheard by his friends – who continue to watch Alexander – and he faces his mother, her face amused, “Mama, they think Alexander and I shall be lovers merely because of his _decency_?”

“Quiet down, Jacky,” Eleanor says, patting John’s head, “And what are you to say to them if you and Alexander do become lovers? It is not impossible, my darling.”

“But –” John protests, his voice nearing a whine, as he points to himself then to Alexander, “– he is Alexander and I am John!”

“A sharp observation, honey,” Eleanor says, amused at her son.

“Mama!” John whines, childlike to Eleanor’s ears, “What I meant to say is he is Alexander and I think him despicable and bothersome.”

“Even after all he’s done?”

“ _Especially_ after all he’s done.”

Eleanor sighs, scratching behind her son’s ears. She fondly smiles at John, her other hand caressing his cheek.

“Let us see what the Fates have planned for you both,” she whispers, biting her lip, “John, we are to part soon. It is almost time for you to wake.”

John’s eyes widen with panic and he grips on her arms, unrelenting and tight.

“Mama, no,” he whispers and Eleanor’s heart breaks – her son sounds so broken, so lost, so scared and she silently curses the Fates in her head, “Mama, please, no. I don’t want you to go.”

“Neither do I, my sweet boy,” she says, kissing the top of his head, “But it is not your time yet. There is still more you have to live for. I shall always be here for you – even if you do not see me. I shall always stand by your side, my darling.”

“You promise?”

“With all my heart, Jacky.”

**x**


	10. just a young heart confusing my mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can imagine John scowling as he walks in the room, spewing words of venom, calling him a beast, a monster and he knows he will have to ignore his own pride, let John say whatever his heart aches to.

“…might be awake.”

Faint ringing in his ears. Head throbbing with ache.

John opens his eyes, squinting when Apollo’s rays assault his view. He sees Lafayette by his side, animatedly talking to an unrecognizable woman with long hair. She sports a silky blue gown, flowing where the wind does, and John faintly thinks _‘pretty.’_ He blinks, eyes wide open, as he tries to take in his surroundings. His eyes land on the view in front of him – an open window, its curtains flowing gently, and a fresh scenery of green grass and tall trees. He furrows his brows. He’s not in his room.

“Where –“ he starts weakly, his voice frail and feeble, catching everyone’s gaze and he almost blushes when he is in the limelight of their attention, “– am I?”

Lafayette bounces happily, nearly pouncing on him as he leans down to pepper John’s cheeks with kisses. John’s face reddens but he doesn’t find the strength to push the man away.

“Lafayette, let the poor man breathe,” a woman scolds and – when Lafayette finally pulls himself off John – smiles kindly at John, pearl white teeth shining and pink lips glowing, “Hello there, John. I am Eliza.”

“I’m John,” he says dryly, embarrassment rushing through him when he realizes she knows his name, and he ducks his head, “Oh, sorry.”

“There is no need for your apologies,” Eliza says kindly, brushing off the awkward smile he returns, “Do you remember anything, John?”

John tries to search through his mind for memories. It comes out blank.

All he remembers is the feel of the ocean breeze against his face, a warm hand in his, soft kisses on his forehead and an engulfing embrace.

“I –” John chokes on his words, suddenly having a coughing fit, and he feels his lungs burn when he forces the air out of him, “– do not remember much. Sorry.”

“It is alright, John,” Eliza says, gentle and slow, “You do not have to apologize.”

John hums, nodding.

“ _Mon arbre_ , you tried to drown yourself,” Lafayette says without preamble, earning a wordless scold from Eliza, while John aches to know more, “Alexander brought you to the sisters – Eliza, Peggy and Angelica – and they healed you.”

“How?”

“My sisters and I are nereids, John,” Eliza answers, “Forgive the absence of my sisters. Though they cannot wait a moment longer to finally introduce themselves to you, I’m afraid there is crucial business they’re currently dealing with.”

“Oh, please do not apologize for my sake,” John says, nibbling on his lips as he tries to gather courage to ask of Alexander – who, apparently, has brought him to the sisters himself, and as he opens his mouth to let the reluctant words out, Lafayette beats him to it.

“Alexander is not here, _mon chou_ ,” says Lafayette, a knowing smile on his face, “He is still up in Olympus. I shall tell him you have awoken – he has been awaiting for your waking moment.”

John hides his face with a hand, cheeks tinted crimson.

“That is not what I meant to ask,” John mumbles, his head bowing, shy under Eliza’s sweet but scrutinizing gaze, “I… Alexander brought me to you and your sisters?”

Eliza nods.

“Yes, he did,” she says, “Never have I seen him so panicked in that moment. I, too, felt panicked when I saw you in his arms –” an odd feeling settles in John’s stomach, ears perking up when Eliza utters those words, “– looking so fragile. Alexander was in hysterics.”

John’s gaze narrows, frowning suddenly, as he tries to wrap his head around _that_ – Alexander worrying and caring for him, an image too unlikely.

“He was?” John asks in disbelief.

Eliza and Lafayette look at each other, an unspoken conversation exchanged with their eyes. John catches his upper lip between his teeth, nibbling nervously, as he waits for them to utter a word.

“John,” Lafayette starts, “Alexander has been the one taking care of you – the whole time you have been asleep.”

John’s lips twist, an odd expression settling in his face.

“Why?”

“ _Mon arbre_ , perhaps it is better for you to ask Alexander that,” Lafayette says and John frowns, “He will explain it better. He shall be here soon.”

John simply nods and lets his head go limp on the pillow; his mind being overcome with thoughts of Alexander. He tries to picture Alexander caring for him, tending him.

He cannot.

**x**

“… fine, Alexander?”

Alexander shakes his head, being pulled out of his wandering thoughts. He meets the gods’ eyes – impatient but curious – and Burr’s concerned gaze. Alexander sighs, combing his hair with a hand, and opens his mouth to explain his state but the Lady Aphrodite speaks before he could attempt to.

“Is it about the prince?” the goddess of beauty asks, eyes fluttering, “He is awake, you know.”

Alexander’s cheeks color. He shifts his gaze.

“So he is,” Alexander says, trying to seem nonchalant, “Now, enough of me, let us return to the gods’ discussion – was it about the Lady Heloise of France or Sir Arthur of England? Forgive me, my mind slips.”

At the mention of the prominent names, the gods are lost in their own thoughts once again, each speaking their opinions while Alexander pretends to listen, nodding and smiling whenever the gods face him, though his mind is absorbed in thoughts of John. _He has awoken_ , Alexander finds himself thinking, heart fluttering with anticipation.

Alexander runs his tongue over his lips, wetting his own as he thinks of John, palms sweating as the imagined scenarios swirl around his mind endlessly. He can imagine John scowling as he walks in the room, spewing words of venom, calling him a _beast_ , a _monster_ and he knows he will have to ignore his own pride, let John say whatever his heart aches to. Alexander breathes in, mind throbbing from the weight the thought carries – how can he merely stand there when his fate smears his whole being?

_Be patient and kind…_

“Alexander, you are not listening,” comes a hushed whisper from Burr, “You are no good if you cannot still your mind.”

“If your goal is to insult me, do know you are succeeding,” Alexander snaps, eyes narrowed at Burr – whose face is of stone.

“Do not make everything about you, Hamilton,” Burr harshly whispers, brows crossed, “I am just saying. If your mind is not present, then none of you is. Perhaps it would be better for us all – and especially yourself – if you would just retire to your island.”

“What a cute attempt to rid of me, Burr,” he mutters sardonically, loud enough for Burr to catch, “Though I am devastated to say it is not working.”

“Hades help me,” Burr curses, palming his face in unabashed frustration, “Hamilton, if you do not leave Olympus this very moment – gods help me – I shall return your John to his kingdom.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Hamilton hisses, alike to a snake, and he repeats it again, this time with more venom, “You _wouldn’t_.”

“Who’s to say?” Burr shrugs as he says it, “I shall do anything in my power if you do not leave Olympus right now. Perhaps I will even beg the gods to –”

“Why are you so desperate for my departure?”

“Do _not_ put words in my mouth, Alexander,” Burr snaps, “I am not desperate – I am frustrated.”

“Of what?”

“Of yourself and your pining,” Burr answers easily.

“I am not pining!” Alexander defends himself mutedly, anger dripping from his voice, “Do not be so hypocritical, Burr. You do not want me to put words in your mouth? Then do not put any in mine.”

Burr scowls but he stays silent, indicating for Alexander to continue.

“I shall leave –” Alexander nearly growls when Burr’s face contorts in happiness, “– but do not beg for my aid once you decide you cannot handle the gods.”

“Do not be so cocky, Alexander.”

“Whatever do you mean?” he teases, a toothy smile playing on his lips, “It is my best quality.”

Burr rolls his eyes, unamused.

“Gods and goddesses!” Alexander exclaims, rising from his seat as he bathes in the attention of the Olympian gods, “I am not in the proper headspace to guide your moralities so I shall kindly excuse myself – I am certain Aaron is well enough to handle all this. Good day, gods and goddesses.”

When Alexander walks away from the room, Burr takes a deep breath, nervously facing the twelve deities – who are all expectantly looking at him – and he winces when they burst into incessant talking, feeling regretful of his decision already.

**x**

Alexander is startled out of his thoughts when the carriage lands the ground with a thud.

He steps out the carriage, breathing in the crisp scent of wet grass and fresh flowers, his thoughts soothing to a blissful calmness as the soft breeze brushes against his face. He closes his eyes for a moment, letting the world’s worries loose for a brief second, and revels in the tranquility that the natural scenery – green grass, blooming flowers and windy air – brings him. He opens his eyes, biting his inner cheek, when he spots the sisters’ cottage – where John shall stay.

His nails dig into his palms, heart pounding with every step he takes, bringing himself closer to the cottage. He wills himself to stay calm but his attempts are fruitless.

As he is one moment away from facing John once again, Alexander slowly inhales, vision filled with the mahogany door, as he raises his hand balled into a fist to reluctantly knock on the door. He knows there is no need for knocking but he continues to knock in repeated patterns, nonetheless.

Soon, the door opens to reveal Lafayette – eyes shining when he spots Alexander.

“ _Mon petit lion_ , you are here early!” Lafayette says, glee in his eyes and movements, ushering Alexander in the cottage, “John is awake! He has been asking of you.”

Alexander’s heart jumps and he gulps as they walk to John’s room.

“Lafayette,” Alexander calls out, stopping in his steps, with Lafayette mirroring his actions, “Is it silly of me to think he shall slap me the moment I step in?”

“Yes, _mon ami_ ,” Lafayette says, a grin spreading in his face, as he watches – with blatant amusement – Alexander fiddle nervously, “He will not. I doubt he even has the energy to, anyways.”

Alexander nods but still seems unsure. Lafayette, sighing, nudges Alexander and smiles at him, ruffling his hair.

“He will not slap you, Alexander,” Lafayette says, “Do not worry anymore.”

“Is Eliza still here?” he asks, looking around.

“ _Non_ ,” Lafayette answers, “She has left a few moments ago. Something to do with King Schuyler and his kingdom.”

“Ah,” Alexander utters, still frozen in his position, to which Lafayette frowns at, “Do not look at me like that, Lafayette. I am nervous.”

“This is just John, _mon lion_ ,” Lafayette says, pushing Alexander to the door, tone incredulous, “And when has the great Alexander ever been nervous of anything? This is not the man I met who has battled a boar with his bare hands.”

Alexander combs through his mussed hair and opens the door reluctantly, tongue between his teeth as he reluctantly enters the room, trying to ignore Lafayette’s happy clapping and gleeful noises. He meets John’s eyes and turns around to close the door, heart speeding up at the intensity of John’s green eyes.

When he shuts the door close – away from any prying eyes – Alexander turns to face John. He is dressed in a silk nightwear – white shirt to his knees and loose pants that sway with the wind – and his freckles stand out prominently in the sunlight shining from the open window. Alexander _tries_ to stop himself from making visceral poems of John’s starry dots – _tries._ While he is midway in comparing his freckles to the constellation of Orion, John breaks the stiffening silence with a violent fit of coughs.

Alexander – in instinct, though he would be quick to deny it later – rushes to John’s side, rubbing small circles on John’s back as he forces the air out of him. When John’s fit comes to an end, Alexander awkwardly steps away from John, hands clasped behind his back, looking like a child caught sneaking away the desserts. John looks at him, his face unreadable, and speaks in a strained voice.

“You’ve been taking care of me,” John says it more of a statement rather than a question, “Laf and ‘Liza told me.”

“Yeah,” Alexander says, monosyllabic – quite embarrassing on his part, “I have.”

“Why?”

Alexander decides there is no point in sugar-coating the whole situation.

“You almost lost your life because of my words and myself,” Alexander speaks, trying to hide his uneasiness, “I think I owe you – at least – that.”

“‘M’kay,” John says, sinking back into his pillows, wrapping the duvet around him.

Before silence can overtake the air, Alexander opens his mouth to speak again, seeing John has no intention to do once more.

“You may write to your siblings,” Alexander says, suddenly stiff in his posture, “You are to stay here as well. The servants shall not follow you out the palace. You may dress as you desire so. You do not need to wear those – from your own words – _hideous frocks._ ”

John’s jaw drops at Alexander’s words, shock written all over his face, as he lays on his side to fully face Alexander, disbelief shining in his eyes. John blinks as if trying to prove that this isn’t a dream and then pinches himself.

Alexander would have laughed if not for the pitifulness of it all.

“You are not…” John stumbles through his words but he doesn’t bother to hide his jubilance, nearly bouncing on the bed, “… kidding?”

Alexander almost smiles at John’s childlike excitement. He bites the inner skin of his cheeks to keep himself from bursting in a widespread grin; rather, he nods, amusement running through him when John nearly squeals in joy. He lets his lips quirk, the corners upturned, a miniscule sign of a smile.

“But there are rules you are to abide by,” Alexander says, his tone business-like, while John eagerly nods, “You _cannot_ mention – or even describe – where you are now. If you do, I shall forbid you from writing to them once again.”

John gulps and grips on the sheets but nods, nonetheless, eager to comply. Alexander nods as well, hands in his coat’s pockets, as he shifts his gaze somewhere else, the air suddenly stiff and strained. In his peripheral, he can see John absently smiling, a daydream upon his face, himself looking content and at peace.

Alexander feels pleased with himself.

“I shall leave now,” he says, walking to the door, “Rest well, _John._ ”

He cannot help but think how perfectly the name pasts his lips.

Alexander shakes his head at the oddity of his thoughts and twists the knob to open the door, preparing himself from walking out until he hears John make a protesting noise – a muffled _wait_ , he thinks. Alexander freezes in his steps, anticipating.

“Thank you –” John says, voice hesitant and shy, “– _Alexander._ ”

And this is the first time Alexander hears his name being uttered – by John – with such sincerity rather than brazen hatred under the syllables. Alexander doesn’t try to fight off the smile that spreads out his lips and puffs his cheeks. Heart soaring in joy, Alexander nearly bounces out of the room.

**x**

The moment Alexander leaves his room, John lays on his stomach and shamelessly squeals into his pillow, too elated to care if Alexander or Lafayette hears him through the thin walls of the room.

Finally, finally, _finally_ – John repeatedly thinks, burying his face in the pillow, smiling against the fabric. His head is caught up in thoughts of his siblings – Harry, Patsy and Polly. The thought of _finally_ being able to write to them once more nearly brought tears to his eyes. He wouldn’t have to solely cling to his memories.

John feels as if this is the first breath of air he takes after days of drowning – overwhelming.

He doesn’t want to close his eyes or fade into sleep, fearing – as soon as he does – he will wake up to find out that this is merely a dream his subconscious has conjured in his mind to comfort him. His eyes are wide open as he gazes out the open window – Apollo’s sun is setting, a wondrous hue of color bursting in the sky; vivid oranges weaving with bright yellows, the sun’s rays reflecting unto the beautiful Gaia. For once, John feels serene, his thoughts still and his heart full.

Out of boredom, John absently counts the trees.

_One, two, three, four, five, six…_

“ _Mon arbre_ ,” John’s gaze shifts, spotting Lafayette – who lazily leans against the opened door, a fond smile on his lips, “Oh, I will miss you in the palace but do know I am the happiest for you! You shall finally contact your siblings once more! Are you not excited, _mon ami_?”

“Oh, I truly am,” says John, “Too much that I cannot express it in mere words alone.”

Lafayette hums, sitting down the foot of John’s bed.

“I am happy for you, John,” Lafayette says, “Do introduce me to your siblings.”

“I shall,” John feels giddy, “Though – and I have been dying to ask this – why is Alexander doing all this? I know he has taken care of me because he feels as if he owes it to me but… this? This just does not seem like Alexander at all.”

“Oh, John, you may not think it –” Lafayette says, smiling at John, “– but Alexander is not heartless, merely prideful and dense. It just takes time for our Alexander to think out of his ego.”

“Perhaps I should have tried to drown myself earlier if this were the reaction of Alexander,” and though John means it as a lighthearted joke, a simple tease; Lafayette’s face hardens and he drops his smile, now staring at John.

“You cannot simply kid about that, young prince,” Lafayette scolds, “That is your life you are talking about. It is not a mere joke or whatsoever.”

“Might as well be,” John murmurs, rolling his eyes, “Do not worry so much, Lafayette. I shall not try to do so once more, not when my siblings are only a letter away.”

“You truly love them,” Lafayette speaks in awe as he watches John’s eyes light up – so unlike the John in a dress, stuck in a palace, eyes dim and dark as if no bearing of any light.

“They are my only solace in this world.”

John sits up, leaning against the headboard, as he and Lafayette continue the talk of his siblings. Despite his euphoria of writing to his siblings and wearing what a prince ought to wear, John feels an empty hole in his heart.

**x**


	11. never known how it broke me down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frankly, it is stealing his night’s sleep – rather than sleeping like he ought to do, he thinks of Alexander and what he has done to drive the man away.

“The Princess Martha shall take leave today, your highness.”

Polly nods absently, her face blank of any emotion, as she sips into her cup, the simmering heat of the tea sliding pleasantly against her throat. An open book is in her lap and she traces the pages carelessly, not bothering to acknowledge the servant any further. In her peripheral, she can see the servant bowing and leaving the room with a huff – which she ignores completely, too lost in her own world.

She places the cup on the table beside her, licking her lips, and tries to divert her attention on the book. She leans down, the dark ink on the pages a blur to her mind. She pretends to read, pretends to let the words sink in her mind, while, truthfully, she is merely trapped in her labyrinthine thoughts, the chain of her mind weighing her down. She refuses to think of her brother; rather, she thinks of her suitor – soon to be her spouse – Charles Pinckney.

A small, mousy man who often sought her opinion – hardly does he decide anything on his own thoughts and will. If it is not her opinion he seeks, it is his mother’s. 

He is kind, that she has to admit. He is not imposing or forceful as such Patsy’s husband – David Ramsay – or demanding and snooping alike Harry’s wife – Elizabeth. Charles is merely… dependent which, normally, she would have loved. A man seeking her opinions, depending on her for decisions – that felt like power to her.

But, now, she fears she does not have the will to do so – hardly can she even make decisions for herself, what more for another person?

Though he is a good man – she doesn’t dread to marry him. It could have gone worse, she supposes.

“Your highness,” _another_ _servant_ , she absentmindedly thinks, “A letter has arrived for you.”

She hums in response, pointing to the table beside her, indicating to the servant to place it there. The servant complies wordlessly, head bowed, as they walk to her, placing the letter atop the table. They bow once more and leave the room.

She turns sideways, facing the table. The letter is folded neatly, a silk ribbon encasing the paper.

With a mindless shrug, she delicately takes the letter in her hands. One twist of her fingers and the silk unlaces itself gracefully, falling on the pages of the forgotten book. She carefully unfolds the letter and reads it aloud.

She nearly gasps when she recognizes the handwriting, the familiar curl of _y_ and the odd twist of _l._

_My dearest siblings,_

_I am well. I only pray that you are too._

_Forgive the tardiness of this letter – only now did I get the opportunity to write. I miss you all dearly, more so than I can express in mere words and so I shall cut this letter short._

_Write back soon._

_Jacky_

Polly abruptly stands up, the letter in her hands, ignoring the soft thud of the discarded book. She runs out her room, slamming the door close.

She overlooks the servants’ bewildered faces as she pasts them and the courtiers’ apparent scowls at her shameless display of uncouthness. When she catches sight of Patsy leaning down to pick flowers in the garden, Polly yells out her name, her arms waving to catch Patsy’s attention.

“ _PATSY_!”

Patsy flinches in her spot, turning around, scowling.

“Lower your voice, Polly,” Patsy scolds, hands at her hips, “What is so important that you had to shout my name at the top of your lungs.”

“If I tell you, you would be shouting too,” Polly quips, lips upturning to a smirk.

“Then tell me,” Patsy’s tone is impatient and demanding – no time for games.

“It is about Jacky,” Polly says, smiling when Patsy gasps, eyes widening at the mention of her brother’s name, “He sent us a letter.”

“My gods,” Patsy breathes out, gaze fixed on the paper between Polly’s hands, her own aching to grasp that, “You are not joking?”

“I would not dare to,” Polly places the letter on Patsy’s open palm, “See it for yourself.”

Patsy shakily unfolds the letter, breath hitching when she recognizes the handwriting. She gasps softly as she reads the letter slowly, as if drowning in each ink-stained word. Polly does not blame her – it’s the first they’ve heard from their Jacky once more. Polly smiles fondly when she sees tears trickle down her sister’s cheeks.

“Dear Athena,” Patsy chokes out, hastily wiping away the tears from her cheeks, smiling at Polly who feels she is close to tears as well – it’s the first time she’s seen her sister smile genuinely, “He is alive, Polly. Oh, dear Zeus, I am about to burst into tears like some pathetic maiden –”

“Do not shame yourself, dearest sister,” Polly speaks, “Shall we write a letter back?”

“And have you told Harry?”

“I have not,” Polly admits shamefully, guiltily chewing the insides of her cheeks, “I do not think he would care.”

“Polly!” Patsy scolds, flicking her sister’s forehead, “Do not be so thoughtless. Of course, our Harry will care. This is Jacky we are talking about.”

“Oh, I know,” Polly sighs, posture slumping and head bowing, ashamed to meet her sister’s eyes, “I… It’s just Harry hasn’t been himself and I…”

“Dear sister,” Patsy says gently, cooing, “We have all changed ever since our Jacky was taken away from us. Let us be considerate of our brother and bring him the good news?”

Polly raises her gaze to meet her sister’s eyes, a hesitant smile crawling on her lips, and she takes her sister’s hand, trembling.

Their Jacky is alright.

**x**

“John,” Lafayette faces John – a sheepish smile on his lips, “You do know when Alexander said, ‘do not tell them of the island,’ he did not mean ‘do not tell them of anything,’”

“I truly did not know what to write to them,” John shrugs, playing with his sleeves, ignoring Lafayette’s pointed glance, “Do not look at me like that, Lafayette. I am being frank – what do I write to my siblings? That I nearly tried to take my life? That Alexander – though he was a dunce in the beginning – treats me well now? I do not think so.”

“You haven’t written to your siblings for how many weeks and that is all you are to say to them?” Lafayette scolds, face softening when John sighs into his palms, “I am not trying to lecture you, _mon arbre._ You are not doing this because you are afraid of our Alexander, are you?”

The look that shifts on John’s face is enough of an answer for Lafayette. As he opens his mouth to speak endless words of consolation, John hurries himself and slurs his words.

“I know what you are about to say,” John raises his hands in defeat, “I just do not want to risk it. If I let anything slip, he may change his decision and I do not want to risk that.”

“John, you are not risking anything,” Lafayette says, “Alexander may be daft but he is not stupid.”

“Could have fooled me,” John snorts, smiling, then he nervously licks over his lips and Lafayette anticipates his question before John can put it into words, “Is… Is Alexander avoiding me?”

“What do you mean, _mon ami_?”

“I am grateful for the space he is giving me and, of course, you and Hercules and the Schuylers –” John speaks hurriedly, red overtaking his cheeks, freckles prominent, “– but it has been weeks since I have seen him and I am quite curious of his endeavours. I do not think I have properly thanked him for saving my life.”

“You do not need to thank someone for their decency.”

John sighs, hands falling to his knees.

“Lafayette, must I say what I feel word for word?” John says, eyebrows creased, “I am curious what is of Alexander. I have not seen him far too long for it be plain coincidence. You, on the other hand, have. Is he avoiding me?”

“Ah, so you are admitting you miss our Alexander?”

John closes his eyes in frustration. He does adore his newfound freedom in the cottage and the woods that surround it – the sisters’ willing friendship with him is also a pleasure to his stay here. He adores all that they are to give him. Of course, that is not to say he is not curious of Alexander – ever since he has awoken from his deep sleep, he has hardly, if not at all, seen Alexander. Frankly, it is stealing his night’s sleep – rather than sleeping like he ought to do, he thinks of Alexander and what he has done to drive the man away. He is still yet to thank Alexander and – though John is reluctant to admit it – is willing to make amends with him.

“Lafayette, I did not utter one word to insinuate what you are saying so do not think of such foolery,” John hisses, glaring at Lafayette, “I do not miss him. I am merely curious. Is he avoiding me? Why is it that you cannot answer that as frankly as I am asking you?”

“Calm down, John,” Lafayette says, “I do not know if Alexander is avoiding you. I did not even know he was not visiting you in the first place. He is always up in Olympus and, the moment he steps in the island, he retires to his quarters. We hardly see him as well – I just thought he has managed to visit you in between.”

“Oh,” John breathes out, “Perhaps he was just busy.”

“ _But_ –” Lafayette continues on, thoughtful, “– now that you have brought the topic to light, I cannot merely ignore it. I shall ask Alexander of his endeavours.”

John feels his cheeks warm in embarrassment at the prospect of Lafayette telling Alexander that he has been worried for him – _he_ who, not so long ago, wished for his existence to cease. He is quick to try to convince Lafayette out of it.

“Laf, you do not need to do that,” he nearly begs, his nails nervously digging into his palms as he scrambles for reasons to convince Lafayette to heed to his wishes, “Truly, you do not. You said it yourself – Alexander must be busy. Dealing with the gods and all, I am sure that is all that is.”

“Nice try, John,” Lafayette says, walking to him and flicking his forehead with a finger, “But I’m afraid I am compelled to ask our Alexander. Though you are right – dealing with the gods is a truly a tedious task – in all the years that I have known him, he has never been so busy as he is now.”

“I am sure it’s nothing, Laf,” John is desperate now – and, though it may seem childish, he does not want Alexander to think that John is _concerned_ of him. His pride will not allow him. “That was simply me thinking too much. You need not to ask him. I am certain he is only busy as ever – perhaps the gods plan for a world war or cause a famine. Who knows?”

“Do not worry, dear John,” Lafayette gently whispers, patting his head like _some child_ to be assured, “I shall not mention to him that is you who have brought this up.”

“What – I – You –” Lafayette does not bother to wait for him to finish his stuttering mess of a sentence. He presses a quick kiss to John’s forehead and walks to the threshold, turning back to meet John’s eyes with a mischievous glint.

“I shall tell you what he has been up to,” Lafayette smirks, his tone blatantly teasing, “Sleep well tonight, John.”

And as Lafayette leaves, John plops on his bead, burying his face into his pillow as he resists the urge to scream, silently cursing at himself.

**x**

“Alright, Alexander, this has been going on for too long now,” Aaron steps in Alexander’s way, dutifully ignoring Alexander’s noise of protest and effectively blocking the entrance to Alexander’s carriage – his only way home, “What is the matter with you? You have been working non-stop to the brink of insanity. Even the gods are questioning your sudden… restlessness.”

“Move out of the way, Burr,” Alexander asks irritably, brows knitted, “I am exhausted from dealing with the gods’ absolute _bullshit._ Perhaps to the point that my mind is at lost for words,” he sighs exasperatedly when Burr’s eyes comically widen, just wanting to get back home and rest on his warm, inviting bed, “Yes, Burr, even _I_ have my own limits. Now, do me a favour and move aside or I shall tie you up and throw you out of Olympus myself.”

“I am sure you do not have the strength to do just that,” Burr remarks, shrinking in his posture as Alexander glowers – a wordless invitation of _try me_ , “We do not need to involve violence into this, Hamilton. I am merely concerned of your state. You are worrying me.”

“Now, that is something you do not hear every day,” Alexander sighs, running a hand over his face and through his hair, “Burr, I truly appreciate your concern of my well-being but I am afraid I am in no proper state of mind to converse with you. I simply want to go home and fall asleep, Burr, so if you would just step out of the way…” Alexander, despite his small stature, pushes Burr out of his way with surprising strength, stepping in the carriage with a satisfied groan, “… I swear I shall explain all this tomorrow, Burr. Excuse me today – it seems the gods have tired me even more so than I expected. All the good wishes to you.”

Alexander closes the door shut, not bothering to let Burr respond, his eyes fluttering close as he feels the ride descending from Olympus, the familiar flurry soothing his senses. He takes off his glasses and tucks it over his cravat, leaning heavily on the cushion, his head lolling back in exhaustion. Today, with no doubt, was the most challenging the gods have been – even more so than the day both he and Aaron had to convince them to let go of their plan to cause a plague to go around the world. They had already experienced that in the Middle Ages, Alexander is not sure he wants to go through it once more. He lets out a tired sigh, staring blankly down his lap.

When he feels the carriage land with a thud, Alexander steps out of the carriage, eyes bloodshot as he stares at the palace in front of him, bones aching to lead himself to his beloved room. As he walks in the palace, he is greeted by the sight of an expectant Lafayette who drapes himself over the lounge with a concerned Hercules standing by his side. Already knowing where this is going to lead, Alexander stifles a sigh and crosses his arms, standing still despite his tired bones and all he craves for is sleep – but he knows Lafayette and Hercules will not stop pestering him until they get what they want.

“Alexander,” Lafayette speaks first, eyes raking over him, concern on his features as he notes Alexander’s deep eyes bags – even deeper than when John was fast asleep – and paling skin, a sickly white, almost, “You are doing it again.”

“What am I doing again?” Alexander says, fingers massaging his head as he wills the throbbing to go away but all he hears is the constant ringing in his ears.

“You are pushing yourself to your limits,” Hercules answers for him, “You have done it when John was asleep and you are doing it again,” he looks at Alexander’s bloodshot eyes, wincing, “Have you even slept?”

“If you knew what the gods are planning, then you wouldn’t’ve gotten any sleep either,” Alexander says, swaying on his feet as little white pinpricks paint the corners of his vision, “They are planning to spread another plague throughout the whole of Asia and, according to themselves, much more deadly than the black plague. They are merely doing it for a petty payback for some unknowing mortal. This is, perhaps the most stupid and irrational the gods have been since Burr and I started to counsel them.”

Lafayette springs up to his feet, walking to Alexander as he steadies him. Hercules follows after – both of them looking at him like some bastard child to be pitied. He bites back his curses, knowing his dear friends are only concerned – as such was Burr.

“Alexander, I shall be frank with you when I ask this and I beg you to take no offense as I do –” Alexander braces himself once more, knowing whatever it is that leaves Lafayette’s mouth, he shall be agitated, “– but have you been avoiding John?”

He does a double take at the question, eyes squinted in disbelief. He can see Lafayette and Hercules share a worried look.

“ _Excuse me_ ,” Alexander draws the vowels out, poison dribbled unto his words, his stare accusing, “I tend to the prince restlessly as he is in deep sleep – I even sacrifice my own needs to tend to his – but this is what I get? An accusation of how I am avoiding him?” he stares pointedly at them both, “I am busy trying to convince the gods to think reasonably and not act on impulse to inflict pain to those who wound their egos with mere words. You both know – too well to think this – how tedious that task can get. Forgive me if I hardly talk to any one of you these past weeks – truly am I sorry for that – but I also have my own duties to attend to. I cannot solely focus on the people on this island, if that is what you are thinking.”

Lafayette’s lips clamp up, hands retreating to his sides. Hercules looks stricken.

Alexander does not have the energy to apologize, not when all he aches for is sleep. “If that is all,” he starts to say, walking to the stairs, “I shall take my leave.”

But, as he walks to the stairs, white pinpricks dot the entirety of his vision and he falters in his step, vision going blank.

**x**

As soon as Apollo’s sun rise and after they have tucked Alexander into bed, Hercules and Lafayette hurriedly walk to the sisters’ – and John’s – cottage, praying to the gods above for the sisters’ appearance in the sweet, small house. As they reach the door, they both breathe a sigh of relief when they see John happily conversing with the sisters. But they halt in their steps, sharing a look, hesitant to break the air of happiness around them.

“…your sister really did that?” Peggy’s voice booms, tinged with disbelief and amusement, “My gods, you’ve got to let me write to her. She seems wonderful, John.”

“Patsy truly is,” John says, at ease as he leans against the wall, “Do not let me stop you from writing to her – she adores having someone new to write. Says it broadens her perspective of the world around her. Considering you are a nereid, she will be more than delighted.”

“My adoration for your sister continues to grow!” Peggy exclaims happily, her two sisters fondly shaking their head – Eliza sewing floral crowns together and Angelica’s eyes buried in a book, “I truly cannot wait to write to her, John. She seems wonderful.”

Before John can utter a reply, they both notice Hercules and Lafayette’s presence, both standing awkwardly at the door. They brighten up visibly and usher them in.

“Hercules, Lafayette, what are you both doing here so early?” Angelica asks, putting her book down when she notices the distraught look on their faces, “Is there something that happened? What is wrong? You two look like as if a hurricane has dawned upon you both.”

“I…” Lafayette struggles for words, “It’s Alexander.”

In his peripheral, he can see John jerk at the mention of Alexander’s name. He does not know if it is of fear or concern. He hopes it is the latter.

“What happened to him?” Eliza asks, halting her sewing.

“He fainted,” Hercules answers and simultaneous gasps fill the room, “But he is fine. Simply too exhausted – seems he has reached his limits.”

“How many weeks has he kept this up?” Eliza asks.

“Let us see,” Lafayette says, counting on his fingers, “After John has awoken, that is when Alexander has crazedly devoted himself to advising the gods as he did so when John was asleep.”

“Three weeks, then,” Peggy concludes, voice breathy, “Dear Poseidon, Alexander truly does not know when to stop, does he?”

“That is both to his benefit and disadvantage,” Lafayette states, curiously gazing at John – who is still to utter a word, “We are planning a hang-out for him with us all – to take his mind off the gods for, at least, a day or two.”

While they busy themselves planning for a break for Alexander, John hides in a corner, chewing on his nails thoughtlessly, desperately hoping it is not he behind the reason of Alexander’s fainting. Peggy looks at him, brows raised, inviting John to join their circle. As they talk of pretty meadows and sweet cakes, John is lost in his thoughts, wondering how Alexander would treat him.

**x**


	12. it's our paradise and it's our war zone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He _knows_ he does not want to be Alexander’s lover – not after all those words Alexander has sprouted to him – but when he remembers the hope that shines in Alexander’s eyes, his stomach does a little flip and a part of mind urges him to rethink his decision.

“Alexander, my good friend, rise and shine!”

He groans into his pillow, pulling the duvet over his head, trying to avoid the blinding light of Apollo’s sun. He continuously ignores Lafayette’s bumbling self as he urges himself to sleep once more, eyes fluttering close. Lafayette hits his back as a poor attempt to wake Alexander – who only pushes him off his bed, burying himself into his mountain of pillows and duvets.

Lafayette falls on his rear, pouting. He stands up, rubbing his backside as he pulls Alexander’s duvet off him, eliciting a childish whine from the latter. Lafayette fondly smiles at the sight – hardly does he see Alexander so childlike and carefree. He leans down carefully and nudges Alexander awake. Alexander hesitantly opens his eyes, frowning as he meet Lafayette’s.

“We are going out today!” Lafayette exclaims excitedly, walking to Alexander’s wardrobe to pick a reasonable outfit for him, “You shall spend time with us all – the Schuyler sisters, John, Hercules and me! We have planned everything. Oh, you deserve this, Alexander and especially after that stunt yesterday…”

Alexander sits up groggily, heart picking up at the mention of John’s name. It’s been weeks since they have seen each other. He hopes John won’t treat him too viciously – he won’t even try to deny he deserves it. He _knows_ he deserves John’s hostility and he is more than willing to face it if it means a step closer to forgiveness but – right now when his head is aching like a million soldiers pounding through it – he’d rather not anyone make this day harder for him. He yawns into his palm, lazily staring at the outfit Lafayette has prepared for him – an emerald suit, his usual.

“I swear to the gods, Alexander, if I see one more emerald suit in your closet, I shall combust,” Lafayette curses, pulling out another emerald suit from his wardrobe, identical to the one laying on his bed, “Why is that the only suit you wear? You have none but emerald suits and your nightwear. You lack variation, Alexander.”

Alexander shrugs as he stands from his bed, thinking it’s too early to argue about his clothing choices. He rubs his eyes open as he walks to his bathroom to take a quick shower. Lafayette tells him to hurry himself up while all he can think of is John, questions of how the latter would treat him now that he is bright and well, no deep sleep to hinder him from treating Alexander as how he should.

He shakes his head, breathing a sigh of relief when the water dawns on him. He quickly takes the shower, wrapping a towel around his lower, walking out of the bathroom to find Lafayette gone. Shrugging, he takes the emerald suit in his hands and hurriedly wears it. Despite the shower he has taken only moments ago, he still feels groggy from sleep.

When he is properly dressed, Alexander is quick to comb his hair and head downstairs, only to be met with an overenthusiastic Lafayette dressed in a casual gown – with a freely flowing fabric – with Hercules beside him, wearing a simple chiton – easier for him to shapeshift in. He almost feels overdressed.

“Alex,” Hercules says excitedly, eyes lit up like a child’s on their birthday, “Let us go. The others are waiting!”

**x**

John fiddles with his loose sleeves as he anticipates for Alexander’s arrival. His heart is ramming against his chest at the thought of seeing Alexander again – though he had been nothing but kind to John the last few weeks, Alexander is a walking contradiction of himself. John never knows what to expect of him – in one moment Alexander will be cursing his very existence and then the next he will be taking care of John tirelessly as if his lifeline depended on it. He does not know how Alexander will treat him now and that sends him into a nervous frenzy. He knows he shouldn’t worry – the others had told him that Alexander is merely prideful, not stupid – but his overwhelming thoughts take over his mind.

Peggy sits beside him, both of them leaning against a tree, eager to hear more tales of his sibling – John still hasn’t bothered to ask Peggy why she’s suddenly so invested in the lives of his siblings. He thinks it rather sweet and he is sure his siblings will too. As he continues to tell her of Patsy – whom Peggy shamelessly admits is her favorite Laurens sibling – his own head is swirling with the sudden flurry of thoughts of Alexander.

He wills his mind to stop conjuring images of Alexander.

“Alexander!” he hears Eliza yell and he instinctively looks up to see Alexander walking upwards to the hill, dressed in his usual suit, and her words stumble out messily, “How are you? Lafayette told us you fainted. You should know better to take care of yourself. Though you are immortal, does not mean you are immune. Have you been eating? Oh, Alexander…”

Eliza’s voice fades out of John’s hearing. He looks up to meet Alexander’s vivid gaze and feels himself shrink under the violet hues. John swallows, licking his upper lips as he and Alexander are locked in a gaze. He plays with his sleeves nervously, feeling uncomfortable from the overwhelming intensity of Alexander’s eyes. He abruptly looks away, focusing on whatever it is Peggy – who still hasn’t taken notice of Alexander – is heatedly rambling about.

When Alexander makes his way on the top of the hill, his eyes widen when he sees a picnic blanket, his favorite meals atop it all. He grins and situates himself beside Angelica who immediately swats his head, eliciting a half-hearted protest from Alexander. The other two – Hercules and Lafayette – follow shortly, sitting down across Alexander and Angelica. Eliza is the last one to sit, puffing and sitting down gracefully.

Alexander is the first to speak.

“I truly am grateful for all your concern,” Alexander says, taking a strawberry macaron in his hands, “But this was not needed. I am fine.”

“Right,” Peggy snorts, chewing on a shortcake, “Tell us that once you are not fainting.”

“It happened once!” Alexander protests, arms flailing wildly around him to prove his point, accidentally smacking Angelica in the face, to which she responds with a glower, “I do not know why all of you are making a big deal out of this. I shall not die – if you are worrying about that. I cannot die. I am immortal.”

John stares at Alexander unabashedly, sipping on his orange juice. He has not seen Alexander for how many weeks and now he is here – he hasn’t even acknowledged John’s presence. John curses on himself, looking away abruptly. He has loathed Alexander’s whole being before – why is it now he is suddenly craving for it? John shakes his head and chugs on the juice, earning odd looks from Peggy.

“Even so,” says Eliza, handing everyone biscuits, “You must take care of yourself. As I said moments ago, though you are immortal, that does not mean you are immune.”

“You have heard the tale of Prometheus, have you not?” Angelica says, glaring at Lafayette when he steals one of her slices of orange, pushing the plate closer to herself and further from Lafayette. Alexander stares at her incredulously – an answer. Angelica rolls her eyes at his melodrama. “Then you know – even if he is immortal – he still feels pain. Imagine that – you cannot die as an eagle continuously eats your liver.”

“A curse within a curse,” Peggy remarks, stuffing a cupcake in her mouth, and, with her mouth full, speaks a garble of slurred words, “ _Itzch shad if you end up liksh thawt, Aweshander._ ”

“Peggy,” Lafayette says as he feeds Hercules mouthfuls of pudding, glaring her way, “Do not talk if your mouth is full.”

Peggy shrugs in response, mouth still full of food, frosting smeared at the corner of her lips. “ _Itzch tha modern era, Laf._ _Do what’chu want._ ”

“Peggy, you do know that Patsy would feel outraged at your display,” John speaks for the first time, averting his eyes to solely Peggy when he notices Alexander vividly staring at him – as if only now he has noticed John’s presence. John swallows, the words leaving a bitter feeling.

He smiles when Peggy immediately clamps her lips, chewing faster than intended.

“Alright,” Alexander draws out, gaze still on John, “Aside all that, I do not understand why I must worry about Prometheus’ fate. That is his and I have mine – I am certain I will not end up like him in any way. The gods need me and I am not even boasting. It is the truth.”

“May that be so, Alexander,” Angelica says, sucking on an orange, “Prometheus has betrayed the gods for his love of humankind. Who are you to say you would not do that for your own love?”

Angelica discreetly bats her lashes at John as she says those words, to which he responds with wide eyes. His cheeks color – out of anger or embarrassment, he does not know – and he avoids her eyes, looking down at the appetizing plate of _croquembouche_ in front of him, hands aching to fill his mouth with the desserts.

“My _own_ love?” Alexander repeats Angelica’s words, laughing, “Do not get me wrong – I care about all of you… but betraying the gods? For my _own love_? Dear Hades, I do not even have a lover.”

John, though he is staring down at the plate, feels the heat of the others’ gaze. He bites the insides of his cheeks – this time, out of anger, he is sure. Who are they to assume they are to be lovers? He knows Alexander has taken him away for that very same purpose but he has not even attempted to hint that to John. Who is anyone to say Alexander still wants him – that is, if he ever had. With all the words that John has sprouted to Alexander, it’s only sane to think that Alexander wants him no longer. Perhaps that is why he sent him to the cottage.

 _Do not be stupid,_ a part of his mind scolds him, _Alexander has done that for your own benefit and your own wishes. Do not twist his well-intentioned deeds to accommodate your own selfish, self-absorbed thoughts._

Alexander’s own cheeks brighten when he notices what they are hinting at.

“Oh,” and, for the first time, Alexander is at lost for words as he looks away, praying to the gods to spare him of this, “I… It’s… He’s…” Alexander clears his throat, the others gaping at his speechlessness – it takes death to leave Alexander wordless, “I do not think… we have the intention of becoming each other’s lovers.”

Silence fills the air. John merely chews on his cake to avoid himself from blurting words he will soon regret.

“But is he not your fate?”

John has a steel grip on his shirt, face bursting in red. “Alright –” he finally speaks, catching everyone’s attention, “– will you all stop talking about me as if I were not here? I think I would appreciate it if I were a part of the conversation.”

“John,” it still – somehow – astounds John the way Alexander says his name, “You do not have to talk about this if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“Why do you assume I do not want to talk about this?” and the air around them turns cold, “Why do you assume I’m a fragile glass doll who will break easily? I am not a coward.”

Alexander chuckles sardonically, the sound biting in John’s ears. “Oh, you truly are something, John Laurens,” he spits out, “Whatever I do, it never seems to please you, does it?”

He stands up from his spot. “I treat you with hostility, you run off and try to drown yourself,” and each words strike John’s chest like darts, “I treat you with delicacy, you complain and tell me you are no coward. What is it that truly want? I give you your own house. I let you write to your siblings. What else do you want, Laurens? What _else_?”

“ _What else_?” John mocks, standing as well, “You have stolen me from my family –”

“Yeah, and so?” Alexander says, “Thousands of people has done it with their lovers. Do not think you are exempted, Laurens, because, truly, no one ever is.”

“Perhaps if you had just courted me, Alexander,” John walks to Alexander, facing him, “Perhaps if you had just done this the right way – not the easy way. _Perhaps._ But no. You’ve stolen me away from my family for your own pleasure. You had not even thought of how _I_ would feel about it.”

“Wake up, John!” Alexander yells, “This is the real world, not some sweet fantasy where all is well and pretty. The real world is harsh and cruel and selfish.”

“I know that, thanks to you,” John says, fists at his sides, takes a deep breath and carefully chooses his words, “If you have taken me away from my family the same reason Eros has taken away Psyche, why are you saying you have no intention of becoming my lover?”

The words seem to take Alexander aback. “What?” he whispers, voice unsteady and unsure, “You… You want to be my lover?”

John feels the breath knocked out of him, the intention of his words only dawning on him. “I would not even dream of it,” he snaps, fighting off the blush threatening to dust his cheeks. He clears his throat when silence dawns on the air, turning to walk away before he feels someone grab his arm.

“No, John, do not run away,” he hears Alexander say, “We both know how disastrous running away is. I do not want you to try to take your own life once more. Let us talk about this with a clear head rather than running away like children.”

Silence and then, “…would you let me clear my head first?”

Alexander lets go. “Of course.”

He watches helplessly as John walks away from the scene, plopping down on the ground as he sees his friends gawking at him. He makes a curious noise, realizing his meddling friends hasn’t said a word to stop the confrontation between them.

“Well,” Peggy speaks, eyes wide, “If I am ever bored, remind me to hang out with both Alexander and John. Truly, you both are more entertaining than those of the theatre.”

He groans.

**x**

John sits by a river, the flowing water soaking his pants.

He stares deeply at his reflection in the water. His hair is free from any ribbon or lace – Peggy insisted he looked better with his hair down, he thinks not – and dark circles under his eyes from all the nights he has spent thinking of Alexander.

_You want to be my lover?_

His palms clam up as Alexander’s words echo in his mind.

He had expected a lot to come out from Alexander’s mouth – maybe to ask him to return to the palace, maybe to tell him he is a coward, maybe to tell him his soul is of the weakest – but not those words. And as Alexander uttered those words, John has never seen him so uncertain, so shocked, so stunned. His face perfectly conveyed how John felt at that moment. He doesn’t know what even prompted that question. He _knows_ he does not want to be Alexander’s lover – not after all those words Alexander has sprouted to him – but when he remembers the hope that shines in Alexander’s eyes, his stomach does a little flip and a part of mind urges him to rethink his decision.

He ignores that part of his mind. He knows he cannot avoid it forever but it’s all happening too fast for him. He still doesn’t know what to feel about Alexander, his emotions for the poet is a mess, a part of him is angry and another part is grateful. It’s mixed and messy and _too complicated_ to be explained in mere words.

John sucks in a breath.

He stands up, trying to ignore the way his pants wetly stick to his legs, walking his way back to the palace. He stops in his steps, remembering Alexander’s words.

_The servants have memory._

He looks down on his clothes and swallows on his pride.

He walks back to the cottage, hoping the sisters had finally retreated back. He has been gone longer than he intended to and Apollo’s sun is shining a vivid orange into the sky – it must be afternoon already. As he opens the door, he’s relieved to see the three sisters in their own bubbles – Eliza and Peggy engaged in a passionate discussion about who-knows-what while Angelica casually shares her remarks every now and then. He chuckles fondly.

“Do you three have a spare dress?” he asks, cheeks reddening by the confused glances the sisters simultaneously send in John’s way, “I am heading to the palace.”

“Why do you need a dress?” Angelica asks, head tilted as she tries to draw out John’s intentions, “I know all about the invisible servants and their murderous intentions. You do not have to explain that. The question is – why?”

John raises a brow, confused. “What do you mean ‘why?’” he says, “I arrived there in a dress. The servants have memory. It is only natural if I do so once more.”

“But –”

To his relief, Eliza buts in. “Angelica, stop complicating matters,” she says, rolling her eyes, face softening as she turns to John, “We do have a spare dress. It’s in the closet in your room.”

John flashes a quick _thanks_ to Eliza before he walks to his room. He opens the closet and it reveals a loose, layered green dress, itself resembling the enchanting meadows written in poetry, flowing easily with the wind. John shrugs – it’s better than those hideous frocks Alexander has forced him to wear. He quickly slips off the loose clothes and slips on the dress without hurry. He grabs a ribbon from the closet and ties his hair into a ponytail, the ribbon binding it. He takes a gulp, trying to muster the courage to face Alexander once more and in a dress, nonetheless.

 _It will be alright_ , a part of his mind whispers and John is not so sure if he’s listening.

**x**

Lafayette’s legs rest on Hercules’ lap as he skims through a novel, bored out of his wits.

“ _Doudou_ ,” Lafayette whines, pushing his legs off Hercules’ lap as he crawls closer to the latter, pouting, “I am bored.”

Hercules does not spare him a second glance, focused on his sewing. “Devastating, my love,” he says, distracted, frowning when he accidentally pricks thumb, plopping his thumb in his mouth to suck the blood away. Lafayette frowns, wrapping both his arms around Hercules’ broad shoulders.

“ _Mon choupinet_ ,” he draws out, whining, trying to avert Hercules’ attention on _him_ rather than some piece of clothing, “I truly am bored.”

“And that is truly devastating,” Hercules reiterates, sending a pitiful look in Lafayette’s way before he resumes his sewing. Lafayette huffs and crosses his arms, staring at Hercules, scowling as he tries to see what is so special with whatever Hercules is doing. Does it deserve more attention than _he_ does?

He perks up when he sees John wandering in the palace.

“ _Mon ciel étoilé_!” he calls out happily, standing up and walking to John’s way, engulfing him in a bear hug, “Oh, I have missed you!”

“So have I, Laf,” John laughs, nose scrunching when Lafayette taps his head, “Have you seen Alexander? He has not come up to Olympus, has he? I plan to talk to him.”

“No,” Lafayette smiles when he sees John let out a relieved sigh, “We have locked him in his room. Do relieve him of his boredom.”

John laughs, shaking his head. He waves at Hercules – who enthusiastically waves back before he resumes his work. He walks to Alexander’s room, lets his feet lead him to the room, gulping. Once he sees the familiar door next to the library, he plays with his sleeves – it’s starting to turn to a habit, really – and reluctantly knocks on the door.

“No, Laf, I do not _want_ to try on the suits Hercules has sewn for me!” comes Alexander’s immediate response and John almost laughs despite himself.

“Not Lafayette,” he says. He hears Alexander sigh.

The door opens with a click and Alexander moves to let John in. He walks inside, gaping at the mountain of parchment situated on a desk. His hands ache to reach out and read them – it’s a silly thought, he realizes. He stares at Alexander and throws him an awkward, tiny smile, to which Alexander responds with an identical one. Alexander motions him to sit on his bed – which he does easily.

He prepares himself for the hard part – talking.

“I did not mean to offend you by my words or my actions,” Alexander speaks first, stepping closer to John, his eyes sincere, “I merely wanted to ensure that you stay comfortable throughout the whole time. I know I am not the person your heart aches to see and I know I have said too much in the past to be seen as nothing more than an acquaintance,” he halts, blinking slowly, lost in the shimmering glow of John’s emerald eyes, “I did not mean to make you feel isolated, John. I just did not want to force expectations on you – the others expect you to be my lover and we all know you have no intention of being so. I merely am trying to make things easier for you.”

John looks up to meet Alexander’s violet gaze, lips trembling. “I know,” he whispers, broken, “I know no one is perfect – not even the gods. We all have committed our own mistakes, one way or another, and I am no longer pinning you down for yours,” he says, heart clenching at the utter hope that reflects in Alexander’s beauteous eyes, “I am willing to give you a chance, Alexander.”

“We do not have to be lovers, John,” Alexander walks closer to him until their breaths entwine, bringing up his hand to trace John’s cheeks, his movements delicate, lips tugging when John leans into his touch, “Friends?”

John’s face breaks out in a smile – it’s childish, the whole of it – but he nods eagerly. “Friends.”

**x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now that theyre reluctant friends, get ready for their reluctant pining :]


	13. if you're lonely, come be lonely with me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander nods, staring at John – what a waste for his dear fate to have such pretty lips and remain it untouched by Alexander’s own and he thinks, _they truly are cruel._

“Mama!”

John sits up, chest heaving with heavy breaths, heart drumming in his ears and skin slick with sweat. His lower lip quivers as he releases a shuddering breath, eyelids flitting as he stares out the window – Artemis’ moon still shining against the darkness of the night. He sighs, standing up from his bed as he proceeds to wrap a silk robe around him.

 _Again,_ he says in his mind, walking out his room, relieved to find the rest of the cottage empty, _this is the third time of the week._

He opens the door, walking out, heart calming as he breathes in the brisk breeze of the night, the wind softly brushing against his face. He crosses his arms, walking along the darkened meadows shining with the moonlight. The grass is soft under his bare feet and John relishes in the feeling, tries to focus on the feel of the ground rather than his racing thoughts of his mother – his dearest mother. John halts in his steps, eyes fluttering close in the darkness only to see his mother’s blinding smile.

He swallows, trying to blink back the tears in as faded memories of his mother rush to his mind in a sudden flurry – her voice, her face, her _warmth._ He walks to where he feels the closest to her – the ocean. As his bare feet dig into the grains of sand, the sound of the nearby shores echoes in his ears and John closes his eyes, losing himself in the sound of the endless waves crashing against the sand, his mother’s voice gentle in his ear. He imagines his siblings – Patsy, Harry and Polly – standing with him, each in their own glory, wide smiles plastered unto their faces as they splash water unto each other in childish antics. John smiles at the images he has conjured in his head, chest warming with fondness. His eyes flutter open, his legs taking him closer to the shore until the waves flow over his feet.

John wiggles his toes, the sand sticking in between. He takes a deep breath, slipping off the robe as he walks into the ocean, relishing the feeling of the salt water against his feet. He slips off his loose shirt, throwing it aimlessly on the sand, left in his pants. He walks deeper into the sea until the waves reach beneath his throat. He takes a deep breath, plunging deeper into the waves, effortlessly floating against the waves, his arms effortlessly graceful, legs moving in a practiced dance. He floats around the ocean, trailing after the reflection of Artemis’ moon against the misty waves, moving with each roll.

He imagines his mother beside him, guiding him the way she used to when he was still in the tender age of ten. He turns on his back, floating on the sea, his arms and legs flailing in harmony as he watches the dark sky, littered with countless constellations, the moon glowing gleamingly and John feels lost in the sight. He closes his eyes, relaxing, flowing with each calm wave.

“John!”

His brows knit as he swims closer to the shore, eyes narrowing when he sees Alexander standing in the sand, face illuminated in the moonlight.

“Alexander,” he says as swims up to the shore, sand sticking to his wet feet as he walks in Alexander’s way, “What are you doing here?”

“I had trouble sleeping,” his eyes linger a moment too long at John’s slender figure, taut stomach and narrow waist, freckled to the brim and Alexander wonders how further down his freckles go _because_ – he takes a deep breath, cutting the thought short as he looks up to stare at John, accusing, “What are _you_ doing here? Do not tell me you –”

“Calm yourself, Alexander,” John says, stretching, “I was merely going for a swim. It calms me down.”

“Do you mind if I join you?” Alexander nonchalantly asks, proceeding to slip off his shirt, “I, too, cannot sleep. Perhaps a swim would do me good.”

John’s eyes gawk at Alexander’s toned body, muscled, wiry arms and thick veins pulsating against the skin. His tongue darts over his lips, eyes stuck to the way Alexander’s arms flexes as he moves, shamelessly wondering how his thin, long fingers would feel around his throat, denying him of air, himself breathless and desperate. He pauses, brows knitting.

 _What in Zeus’ name prompted that thought,_ he thinks to himself, chuckling, but the unwavering thoughts of Alexander’s arms linger in his mind far longer than he desires. Alexander notices, shaking his head, sharing the sentiment.

“Shall we swim or would you prefer to stare at my arms?” Alexander points out, snorting, “Do not worry, John. I shall not tease you for it. I’ve had many people complimenting my arms. I _know_ how it looks.”

John gulps, heat pooling in his stomach. He tries to shake himself out of it, trying to disregard Alexander’s teasing remarks as he walks back to the ocean, the waves soothing his pounding heart. He doesn’t bother to wait for Alexander, swimming further into the ocean. He hears the distant sound of Alexander coming along him, the sweet sound of waves mellifluous in his ears.

They swim in graceful patterns, pushing and pulling with the waves, moving in a dance with the sea. John watches in wonder as Alexander swims around effortlessly, his arms aching from swimming in repeated patterns. He chuckles, swimming to the shore, standing when he reaches the shallow part of the ocean, walking to the sand and sitting down, wrapping his arms around his knees as he watches Alexander continuously swim in the sea, the moonlight reflecting on his body.

Alexander, soon, follows him. “It has been so long since I’ve swam,” he says as he walks to John, sitting right next to him, staring at the endless dance between the moon and its sea, “Why couldn’t you sleep?”

“My mother,” John whispers, barely audible through the crashing waves, “I dreamt of her and I could not get her face out of my thoughts,” he sighs, playing with the sand, the grains slipping between his fingers, “Swimming reminds me of her, reminds me of how she used to teach me when I was young – when she was still there.”

Silence envelops the air and Alexander’s heart clenches for John. He reaches out to wrap an arm around John’s shoulders, surprising them both when John doesn’t flinch away. Alexander lets a loose smile play on his lips, letting John lean his head on his shoulders.

“You?” John asks, sandy fingers playing with Alexander’s own.

Alexander hesitates, gulping. “My mother as well,” he speaks after a moment of silence, watching the way John’s pinky encircles his own, “I think of her most nights. It seems, no matter how long I live, I can never forget her… or anyone or anything,” his chest heaves with breathy sighs, “I suppose that’s the price you must pay for a life with everlasting moments.”

“You were not born immortal,” John breathes out, trying to remember the tales of Alexander his mother had told him as when is to sleep, “The gods turned you immortal.”

“The gods were – are – selfish,” Alexander says, “They shall take whatever their heart aches for. They longed for my poetry, obsessed with my words…” he pauses, violet eyes gleaming with unshed tears, trying to hide his face away from John, “…I tried to convince them to rethink their decision but it seems my words are not as powerful as I like to think. They’ve blessed – or, perhaps, cursed is a much more befitting term – me with a life that cannot end. I have loved and lost over and over again,” he says, blinking, “Do you remember what Angelica said during our picnic?”

“Perhaps, too much,” John answers, his thumb grazing over Alexander’s palm, “Do specify, Alexander.”

“When she said that my fate might be akin to Prometheus’ own,” Alexander whispers against the night, eyes fluttering close as John continues to caress Alexander’s palm between his fingers, “I am afraid it is already.”

John squints. “What do you mean by that?”

“We are meant to suffer endlessly,” Alexander says, “Prometheus, by the continuous feeding of his liver. I, by the souls I long and lose.”

“Alexander –”

“That is why I begged of the gods to make it seem as if I were soulless, incapable of loving,” Alexander entwines their hands, his thumb tracing John’s skin, “I do not think I could bear another loss – I have had too much.”

“Then, why did you take me?”

Alexander looks at him, his eyes reflecting truths that his own heart refuses to tell. “Do you want the truth, John?”

“Please,” John says, gripping on Alexander’s head, heart pounding in anticipation.

“I meant to kill you,” Alexander says without preamble, clenching on John’s clamming hands when it threatens to untangle from his, “When the gods have told me of you, _my_ fate, the first thing I wanted to do was to kill you,” he says, eyes nervously flicking over to John – whose face seems too unreadable, “Lafayette and Hercules begged me not to, told me I mustn’t act so carelessly. For once, I listened,” he whispers, “That is when I saw you. The moment I had laid my eyes upon yourself, I knew I could not bring myself to slaughter you – a soul of innocence who has done nothing wrong to deserve such fate. I knew you did not deserve that.”

John wishes, for one moment, that Alexander had went through with his plan to take his life – then, perhaps, he would have been with his mother, reunited with her. He stops the trail of thought and stares at Alexander, violet eyes gleaming in the moonlight, lets out a breath.

“I am your fate – I am meant for you to love and lose,” John says, shaking his head, “The Fates are truly cruel, are they not?”

Alexander nods, staring at John – what a waste for his dear fate to have such pretty lips and remain it untouched by Alexander’s own and he thinks, _they truly are cruel._ “Truly,” he says, admiring John’s beauty in the sweet light of Artemis, “Truly, they are.”

**x**

“Alexander, are you certain you are feeling fine?”

He groans, hand pulling on his hair as he tries to avoid Lafayette’s unyielding figure. “Oh, will you come off it, Paul?” he grits, fists clenched at his sides, “I am alright. I cannot die. I shall not faint,” he says in one breath, hurried, “Now, would you please move out of the way? I still have the gods to attend to.”

“ _Mon coeur_ ,” Lafayette whispers, patting Alexander’s cheek, “Just promise that you shall take care of yourself.”

“Pallas Athena, Lafayette!” Alexander exclaims, exasperated, pushing off Lafayette’s hands with a groan, “It is _one_ visit to Olympus. I am not going to die – dear Zeus, I cannot even die, you worrying eggshell!”

“Oh, alright,” to his relief, Lafayette finally steps out of his way, “Do not overwork yourself!”

Alexander nods and walks in a hurried pace to the carriage, stepping in and slamming the door shut. It’s been two days since he has advised and Alexander feels himself on the brink of insanity. It must be a wonder how the gods hadn’t waged a world war or spread a pandemic.

 _Burr must really be handling this well,_ he thinks, chuckling to himself, _perhaps, I ought to have more faith in him._

Moments later, Alexander finds himself walking to the main hall of Olympus – where all the gods gather together. As he steps in, he’s shocked to find the room occupied with the gods rambling on. Another person on _his_ seat –

“Alexander!” lord Zeus booms, the attention of the whole room falling on him, “You are well, I presume?”

“That is why I grace this whole room with my presence, my lord,” he stares accusingly at Burr – who raises his hands in surrender – and his glare dissipates when he notices who sits in his replacement, jaw dropping in shock, “What is Jefferson doing here?”

“Er…” Burr starts awkwardly, fiddling with his hands – which, normally, Alexander would have found amusing, “…we are a triumvirate now?”

He wants to palms his face, eyes closing in frustration. He’s gone for _two_ days and everything spirals into _this._

“You do know what they say –” Jefferson speaks for the first time and Alexander winces, remembering his voice too clearly, “– omne trium perfectum.”

Alexander meets Jefferson’s eyes and his heart twists in guilt, memories – he thought he had locked in forever – rushing to him like a flood, remembering the _pain_ in Jefferson’s eyes. He composes himself and lets out a breath.

“If you say so,” Alexander says, ice in his tone as he walks his way to the chairs, sitting beside Burr, glaring at him offhandedly, “Now, gods and goddesses, do proceed where you have stopped.”

And, as the gods and goddesses continue to ramble on their distress, Alexander’s thoughts are stuck on Jefferson and he, in all honesty, is surprised that Jefferson has not managed to strangle him to death. He tries to forget the ripping echoes of Jefferson’s screams, the broken sobs that ripped out of his throat as he… Alexander squeezes his eyes shut, willing the memories to fade away. He doesn’t need this – not now, not ever and not especially when Jefferson is here. Alexander gulps and wills himself to focus on the gods and goddesses.

Countless hours later, the gods resume to their duties and the ‘triumvirate’ are left alone to themselves. Burr – in the pitiful position between Hamilton and Jefferson – glances awkwardly, eyes skimming back and forth as he watches Jefferson and Hamilton exchange heated glares with each other.

Inevitably, he’s the first to stand up. “Good day, gentlemen!” he says, standing up abruptly, walking out, leaving Jefferson and Hamilton be, “My carriage awaits me!”

An unbearable silence stretches in between the moments of tension.

Alexander takes a deep breath, Lafayette’s words echoing his mind as he runs over what he is to say, bracing himself – _your pride, Alexander, you must watch it._ “Have you met him?” he asks and they both know too much for a prelude in his words, the words scarring in his minds as he continues to speak when Jefferson doesn’t respond, “I did not know, Jefferson. I truly did not.”

Jefferson stands up and walks his way out, pausing to look back as he utters his words. “Do not bother, Hamilton,” Jefferson spits out, his face blank of any emotion and perhaps that terrifies Alexander more than it should, “I know you do not care.”

Alexander’s breath shudders, the words haunting in his mind.

**x**


	14. i don't belong and, my beloved, neither do you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas releases a breath, the corner of his eyes crinkling, his heart elated with happiness. He does not think he could ask for anything more than his beautiful James.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jeffmads goodness

“Mr Jefferson, your carriage awaits you.”

Thomas lays on his bed, lifeless as he turns over, lazily turning on his side to face Sally, eyes blinking slowly. He swallows, his throat painfully dry, standing from his bed with a grunt. He walks around his room and slips on a suit, his trademark magenta coat over it.

 _“Thomas, do stop wearing those horrid coats as if you are descended from royalty itself,”_ he takes a deep breath, willing his mind to ignore the voice as he fixes his ‘fro, staring at himself in the mirror, his eyes telling dead secrets and his lips untouched by crimson. He absentmindedly traces his lips with his finger, reminiscing the way _James_ – it’s still painful to say his name – has touched it with his own, kissed it with a soft grace, peppered pecks all over until all Thomas feels is his lips against James’ own. His chest tightens and as is his grip on his hair, breaths coming in shudders. He shakes his head, hands retreating to his sides, walking out his bedroom and to the carriage. He looks at it, his stare blank and walks inside, leaning on the seat with a long-drawn sigh, eyes painfully closed, tucked memories flooding his mind like an unprompted hurricane, each and each and each reminding him how he’s failed even his own love.

**x**

“Thomas, dear, wake up,” James murmurs against Thomas’ head, his voice a gentle calm to Thomas’ raging wildfire, shaking his lover awake, to which Thomas only responds with a groan, burying his head further into James’ warmth, “We are still to visit Alexander. Pay him our condolences. His mother had just died, Tommy.”

“ _But_ ,” Thomas whines, his grip on James tightening, refusing to let go, looking up to pout, “I do not want to, Jem. I want to stay here forever, with you, love.”

James smiles, thumb tracing Thomas’ silky skin in gentle lines. “So do I, my dearest,” he says gently, pressing a kiss atop Thomas’ head, humming as he pulls the duvet off them, chuckling at Thomas’ whine, “Now, stop being a lazy bum and get up. Imagine how the poor Hamilton feels at this very moment,” he says, “He had just lost his mother while we are rejoicing in our love.”

Thomas props himself on his elbows, swatting James’ head. “ _Which_ we deserve to,” he pointedly says, “I have not seen you in weeks. And why are you so suddenly sympathetic of Hamilton? Do you not despise him anymore?”

“Thomas,” James starts, pinching Thomas’ nose, shaking his head, “We are not heartless – at least, I know _I_ am not,” Thomas huffs, “The poor man – despite his insufferableness of his whole being – had just lost his mother. Rachel was a kind soul. I think I can afford to sympathize with the poor man.”

“But he makes me want to cut off my own ears.”

James laughs, the sound like silk and velvet in Thomas’ ears. “That is a guaranteed effect after spending a mere minute with Alexander,” he says, snorting when he stands from the bed, “Now, let us fix ourselves and grace Alexander with our presence,” he looks back at Thomas, a mischievous glint twinkling in his eyes, “I have heard the gods has blessed him his own island.”

Thomas’ eyes widen and he jumps out of the bed, prancing his way to James’ way, nearly bouncing on his feet. “His own island?” he says in disbelief, “That is unfair. My father gifted me none when I lost my own mother. Why does Alexander get his own island?”

“That is because the gods are trying to entice him to agree to counsel them,” James pointedly says, standing on pointed toes to ruffle Thomas’ hair, “If I were Hamilton, I would never agree,” he says as he rummages through the closet, “The gods are nightmares of their own accord, especially your father.”

Thomas snorts, good-natured. “What can I say?” he says, “I inherited it from him.”

“You are my daydream, Thomas.”

“James,” Thomas says gravely despite his reddening cheeks, lashes fluttering, “I think you have been spending too much time with me.”

James rolls his eyes. “Why so?”

“You mirror my words,” Thomas says, pinching James’ cheeks, “You’ve even started to flirt with me,” he says, cooing, “I still remember the day I met you – so small, so little. You could hardly talk to me and, dear gods, your stutter –”

“Ah, ah,” James says, wiggling his index finger to Thomas as if he were scolding an unruly child – which, in James’ frank opinion, isn’t too far-fetched from the truth, “We agreed to never talk about my stutter. I was a child back then, Thomas.”

Thomas pouts, leaning against his James. “But, darling,” he starts, “Your stutter was the cutest thing I have ever heard in my twenty-one years of existence!”

James groans but he smiles at Thomas, an unwavering fondness glimmering in his eyes, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “I believe _you_ are the cutest thing I have ever seen in my twenty-one years of existence.”

Thomas splutters. “ _See_?” he says in disbelief, “Too much time.”

James laughs, head throwing back and Thomas cannot help but smile, wishing he could keep the moment locked in his heart.

**x**

“Thomas, you are here early.”

He sees Hamilton enter the room with an unfamiliar hesitance – something never associated with a man like Hamilton. He’s dressed in an emerald suit and it vaguely reminds Thomas of pickles. He walks in slow steps, gaze calculating and sharp, eyes like a hawk. He meets Alexander’s gaze with the same intensity, fire against fire, raging. He sits down his chair, an empty space between them. Silence hangs in the air as they wait for the others to arrive, bodies in an uneasy stance. Thomas glances in Hamilton’s way, glares in every each one.

“I did not know, Thomas,” Hamilton says because when can that blubbering idiot of a man ever afford to be quiet, “I was as clueless as you were. If you want to be furious at someone, do so at your father,” he presses further and Thomas wishes for everything but, his head already throbbing with a headache, “It is he who wanted James’ death, not I. Stop pretending as if it were my fault –”

“Hamilton,” he calls out sharply, interrupting him, “For once in your life, stop thinking of yourself and your damned pride,” he says, “I have not uttered one word to insinuate that my lover’s death was your fault and I shall not. I do not want to talk about it and especially not with you,” he utters each word with dripping poison, each leaving a scarring trail in Hamilton’s mind, “And I’d rather not hear his name out of your mouth.”

To Thomas’ relief, Hamilton shuts his lips.

But his words only bring back memories too painful to think of.

**x**

“Would you look at it?” James whispers in awe, staring at the entirety of the island through the window of the carriage, gasping, “I do wish we had our own island, free of anyone else but ourselves,” he glances at Thomas, his gaze sweet like dripping honey, pretty doe eyes and long lashes – Thomas feels himself drown in his lover’s hazel eyes as he continues to stare on, chest heaving with labored breaths, “I love you, Thomas, perhaps more than I intended to.”

“So do I, my darling James,” he coos, leaning to gently press his lips against James’ own, the touch soft and sweet. He hesitantly pulls away, pecking his lips once more before leans back against his seat, letting out a sigh of relief. “You are irreplaceable in my eyes, James,” he says, eyes lovesick, “I fear I cannot continue to live without your dear soul gracing mine,” he breathes in, shuddering, “Promise me that you shall never leave me, James. I cannot and shall not bear it.”

“My Thomas,” James breathes out, his thumb tracing Thomas’ skin, lost in his lover’s blinding beauty, “Nothing in this world is guaranteed, not even our love,” he says, truthful, “The future is uncertain and so are we,” he smiles when Thomas’ eyes flutter close, further leaning into James’ touch, “You do know – better than anyone, love – that the Fates are not always on our side.”

“Damn the Fates, then,” Thomas says, “Damn them all.”

James smiles, warmth spreading over his chest. “I wish we could, Thomas,” he says, “But –” his words stop short, mouth hanging when they arrive on the island, eyes twinkling in excitement, “Thomas, we have arrived!” he nearly yells, standing up from his seat, bouncing excitedly. Thomas chuckles at his lover’s childlike excitement, shaking his head as he follows the suit, opening the carriage door. He steps in, awestruck by the grassy meadows.

“I do not know how Hamilton would refuse the offer to counsel the gods,” he says, heart thrumming against his chest as his eyes quickly rake over the breathtaking scenery, “This is too beautiful. The gods have truly outdone themselves.”

“Truly,” James says in wonder, standing beside Thomas, fingers dancing up and down on Thomas’ back, “Oh, how I would kill for a view like this,” he says, smiling, “Just imagine, my dear – waking up to sunrises where Apollo’s sun twinkles down the grassy fields and we run through it all on bare feet, careless of anyone and anything but ourselves,” he looks at Thomas, smiling, “I would love to spend the entirety of my life with you.”

“As would I, my darling James,” he leans down and presses a quick kiss, “However, we must not keep Hamilton waiting. You do know the man does not like to wait.”

James laughs, nodding. They walk to the palace – they have been informed of one – hands laced together, wide smiles on their faces.

Thomas releases a breath, the corner of his eyes crinkling, his heart elated with happiness. He does not think he could ask for anything more than his beautiful James. His heart flutters at the thought of waking every morning with his James curled at his side, his breath tickling Thomas’ own, head pressed against his chest as they drown in each other. He blushes, stealing a glance.

“James,” he says, unable to stop the words flying out of his mouth, stopping in his steps, “Marry me.”

James lets out a choked noise, doing a double-take. “What?”

“Marry me,” Thomas repeats, his own cheeks flushing from James’ flustered state, “Marry me, James. Spend a lifetime with me. Take my name. Have my –”

“Thomas,” James cuts him off, “I know what you mean,” he says gently, “I just need to know if you are certain of what you are asking.”

He lets out an incredulous noise, staring at his lover, mock offense in his tone as he speaks. “James,” he starts, “When have I ever been uncertain of anything?” James smiles – something he does too much when he’s with Thomas, “Seal this love with a ring, my dearest. Marry me,” Thomas proceeds to kneel down, taking James’ hand in his and pressing a kiss on his knuckles, smiling at the light blush that dusts James’ dark cheeks, “I do not have a ring with me and all this is unprompted which – I know – is quite unusual for me but I cannot help it, James. Whenever I am with you, it seems my heart controls the best of me,” he pauses, lashes fluttering when James cups his cheek, “You bring out the best of me, my dearest, and I must say I am flabbergasted – not a lot of people do that.”

James’ lips quiver as he pulls Thomas to his feet, standing on tiptoes to lock lips with his lover. Thomas reciprocates with ardor, hands tightly wrapped around James, their lips moving in a practiced dance, grace in their movements. They part for air, staring at each other, foreheads pressed tightly against the other’s.

“Is that a yes?” he says after a moment of silence, lips twisting to a wide smile, too wide that his cheeks start to throb, “Will you marry me?”

“Dear gods, Thomas, yes,” James says, shuddering, quick to wipe away the tears that streaks his cheeks, “You needn’t to even ask. I would have said yes no matter what.”

“James,” he says, “I would trade the world for you.”

**x**

“You two arrived early.”

Hamilton rolls his eyes, sneering as Burr approaches. “How jolly,” he says, sardonic and sarcastic, “The triumvirate is complete.”

“Shut your mouth, Caesar,” Burr comments, sitting down on the chair in between Hamilton and Jefferson, gulping as he looks at them both, “I trust none of you shall pull a Brutus?”

“We know how to control ourselves, Burr,” to Thomas’ relief, Hamilton answers for them both, a glare prominent on his face, legs restlessly twitching as they wait for the gods and goddesses’ arrival, “We are not children.”

Burr shrugs. “I am just saying.”

“Oh, spare us that, would you?” Thomas snaps, irritation clear in his face, “For gods’ sake, Burr, I doubt you would be able to choose between an apple and an orange even if your life depended on it.”

Burr’s face reddens. Hamilton snickers.

“Why do you two adore simplifying my personality into this impression of a man that has no thought for himself, only there because he was,” Hamilton and Jefferson share a look, “Just because I rather not shout what I think of the world atop my lungs, does not mean I do not think. Both of your logic is questionable if you ask me.”

“Praise the gods!” Thomas yells in a sudden, lips curled into his trademark smirk, “He has graced us his opinion! Everyone brace yourselves!”

Hamilton shakes his head, snorting. Burr merely glares at him.

Thomas swallows, dreading for the silence where he’s left alone in his labyrinthine mess of a mind. He breathes in, his lover’s face consuming his thoughts once more.

**x**

“James, put me down!”

He only laughs, spinning around with a lanky Thomas in his arms – who clutches unto his lover for dear life. “Now, I know why you adore doing this to me,” James laughs, spinning once more, chest erupting with giggles when Thomas squeals – something he doesn’t hear too often – and wraps his arms around James’ neck, his grip of steel, “Oh, my darling boy, you truly are the cutest thing I have ever seen in my life.”

“James, if you do not put me down this very instant, I shall revoke my proposal!” Thomas forces out, legs pressed together tightly when James decides to spin them once more, head throbbing and stomach rolling, “If I throw up while Hamilton is grieving, do know it is your fault!”

“Perhaps you will make him laugh,” James halts, merely staring at the man in his arms, “You look adorable, Thomas.”

Thomas snorts. “Well, I do not feel adorable,” he sasses, trying to wriggle out of his lover’s grip, squirming, “I feel as though I am seconds away from throwing up breakfast. James, my dearest James, would you please let me go? I truly feel sick from all the spinning.”

James’ forehead creases in worry and, in immediate movements, situates Thomas down. “Forgive me, sweetheart,” he says, “Perhaps I got myself too excited.”

“You are marrying me,” Thomas states, clutching his stomach, “Who wouldn’t?”

James raises a brow, lips tugging into a smile. “I should swat you for such cheek,” he teases.

“Why don’t you?” Thomas prompts.

“As much as I would love to, we are in Hamilton’s island and it is not appropriate,” James says, pinching the tip of Thomas’ nose, “And he is grieving. I am certain he would prefer it if we kept ourselves at bay,” he smiles lovingly at Thomas, clasping their hands together, “We have stalled ourselves too much. Shall we head on?”

Thomas nods, answering wordlessly. They walk to Hamilton’s palace together, marveling at the white marble and pristine structure. They walk in, the shiny floor under their feet.

“What are you two doing here?” Hamilton asks, standing from the sofa as he walks to them, dark circles under his eyes. Thomas and James look at each other, concerned.

“We came to give our condolences,” James speaks, face sympathetic, “Rachel was a good woman.”

“Indeed, my mother was,” Hamilton comments, “Do take a seat – the both of you.”

They follow Hamilton wordlessly, situating themselves on the couch. Thomas sits beside James, an arm wrapped around his shoulders as they stare at each other, awkward in their movements, mouth dry for any words. Thomas swallows, his stomach prickling with an uneasy feeling as he nuzzles into the crook of James’ neck, pressing a soft kiss unto it. James smiles fondly, looking down and capturing Thomas’ lips with his own.

Thomas can barely comprehend the passing moments.

James gasps sharply into his mouth and Thomas pulls away briefly, concern overtaking him. His eyes widen at the knife pressing into James’ sides, heart pounding against his chest. He opens his mouth to speak but no words come out, barely minding Hamilton who flinches in his seat, wide eyes and slack jaw as he approaches them in hurried movements.

“James, James,” Thomas calls out repeatedly, heart thrumming, “Are you alright?” he curses himself, “No, do not answer that. Hold on, will you, my love? Wait for the carriage?” he turns to Hamilton in a haste, panic in his eyes. To his relief, Hamilton perceives his message in an instant and rushes out the palace. Thomas looks back at James, tears pooling in his eyes at James’ pained groans.

“Where…” James starts weakly, chuckling and Thomas tries to smile back, a forceful wince, “…where did the knife even come from?”

“I do not know, my love,” Thomas says, sniffling, “Do not die on me now, James. We are still to be married. You cannot leave me alone. I have not even bought us rings yet. Do wait, my love. I am in no hurry for you to die.”

“So am I, Thomas,” and a selfish part of him wishes James would never stop talking, “I did tell you – the Fates are not always on our side.”

“They cannot take you away, James,” Thomas says, shaky, “I have lost too much – I cannot lose you too. Dear gods, please, James, hang on, hang on for me. Please. Hamilton shall be arriving here soon with our carriage and I shall take you to the healers and we shall –”

“Thomas,” James’ hand rests against his cheek, “I love you.”

His chest clenches painfully as he leans against James’ soft palm, tears trickling down his cheeks. “No,” he whispers, “James, do not say goodbye. Please do not. I will do anything. Please do not go –”

“My love, I am not saying goodbye,” James wipes away Thomas’ tears, “I shall always stand by your side,” he presses one last kiss on Thomas’ lips, “Do not forget that, my love. I shall always be here.”

“No, no, no,” Thomas frantically whispers, shaking his head, “Stay with me, James. Do not close your eyes. I am right here and so are you. Hamilton is –”

“Thomas,” James says, “It is my time.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” tears shine in his eyes, “This… this wasn’t supposed to happen, James. We…”

“We cannot stop fate,” James reminds him gently, cruelly, “Do not waste your life on me, dearest. There is still more you have to live for.”

“No, no, no,” he shakes his head, defiant, “Do not go, James. Please do not leave me. I cannot… I cannot. Do not go, love, please do not go.”

James smiles and, like a flickering flame that fades away into gray ashes, his hand retreat to his side, bloodied and wounded. Sobs rip through Thomas and he clutches on James’ hand in an unrelenting grip, pressing it close to his cheek, muttering and mumbling as he rocks James’ body in his arms, shaking his head.

“The carriage has –” Hamilton freezes, taking in the sights, “…oh.”

Thomas grips on James harder, refusing to let go.

**x**

“…if they do not want to anger me,” lady Athena’s voice rings out through the halls, fingers tapping on her seat, “I do not understand why mortals must act so foolishly. They fear us gods yet do everything in their power to anger us,” she lets out a frustrated sigh, “I am a goddess of intellect but it seems that I shall never understand the way those mortals think,” she pauses, “No, to correct my earlier statement, I do not think mortals use that head of theirs at all. I am certain they do not think and, if they do, it is only for themselves.”

“Ah, I cannot disagree with you there, my lady,” Hamilton says, snickering, shaking his head, “Indeed mortals tend to act with their hearts than their minds but I must say…”

His voice trails off in Thomas’ mind and he feels himself forcefully pulled into another memory.

**x**

“Thomas, you must let James go.”

Thomas growls at Hamilton, pulling James’ body closer to his. “I shall let him go when I want to,” he snaps, “May I remind you that he died for the very reason that he felt sorry for your…” he takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself down, “…he died merely for the reason that he felt sympathetic for you and your situation,” Hamilton opens his mouth to speak but Thomas wants none of it, “No. I do not want to hear it.”

“Thomas, the love between you two was –”

“I said I do _not_ want to hear it,” he says through gritted teeth, eyes glaring, “Leave me alone, Hamilton. Let me have this with him.”

Hamilton swallows but nods, walking away.

Thomas traces James’ face with his hand, breaths labored. “You truly had to leave the day I proposed to you, didn’t you?” he says, harsh, then he laughs, humorless as he stares at James’ lifeless body, “The Fates are truly cruel, are they not, my sweet love?” he shakes his head, “They couldn’t’ve waited ‘til our wedding.”

 _Wedding._ Thomas’ eyes shine with tears as he imagines of what could have been – their wedding. His beautiful James in a suit as he walks his way down the altar, hands gripping his bouquet of his most adored flower, sunflowers and petunias, as he walks to Thomas, tears streaming down both their cheeks as they face each other, vows of sweet words spilling from each other’s heart, kissing to seal their claim on each other and dancing the night away until they’re too sore to do anything else. His lower lip quivers, tears silently falling to his cheeks as he closes his eyes, hugging James’ body close and tight, his grip unyielding.

“My dearest,” he says in a broken whisper, “Just imagine how beautiful you would look walking down the aisle for me – for _us_ – in your suit,” he breathes in, “Perhaps you wouldn’t have to imagine if you could have just waited,” his eyes flutter open as he stares at James, unable to look away – an effect James had always on him, “I wished you waited, stayed for me. You left too soon, love,” his tongue runs over his lips, gulping, “Too soon,” he whispers in a broken voice, cracking.

**x**

“I truly am proud of you, son.”

Thomas hums as a response, nodding, refusing to face his father. He resists the urge to sneer as he stands up, the other two following the suit once all the gods have left the hall. He sighs, head throbbing with a prominent ache, craving for the warmth of his bedsheets. His eyes flutter close sleepily and he forces them open, scratching the back of his nape.

“I did not know convincing the gods to merely _think_ would be this exhausting,” Thomas comments, slumping back down the chair, “I might just quit this triumvirate and run away with a lover.”

“Ah,” Hamilton laughs, shaking his head as he pulls on his suit, “You are pulling a Marc Antony.”

“It is only high time for one of us to pull a Brutus,” Burr jokes – a rare occurrence – as he walks out the hall, “But I do believe all my bones ache for is rest between my silk sheets. I bid you goodbye, gentlemen.”

Tension fills the air once Burr leaves. Thomas prepares to walk out, if not for Hamilton.

“Thomas,” he calls out, voice unsure as Thomas looks back, hesitant, “Look, I know going back to the island may be a nightmare you would not dare to face but perhaps you would like to join my friends and I for dinner?” he intervenes before Thomas could even think of an answer, “You do not need to. I know that was quite insensitive of me to ask and I shouldn’t’ve.”

“Hamilton,” Thomas laughs, “Calm down and let me talk,” Hamilton pauses, nodding to prompt him, “Since I’ve got none to do this evening and my stomach craves for a proper meal, I shall join you and your friends for dinner…” he narrows his eyes, “…but, if I so much see someone bat their lashes at me or even attempt to apologize to me, I shall leave the very moment.”

Hamilton rolls his eyes but he nods. “I hardly think there would be anyone to apologize to you,” he comments, walking out the hall with Thomas trailing briefly after him, “With a face like that and a personality like yours, I know I would not.”

“Watch your words, Hamilton,” Thomas warns, glaring, “I do not want to pull a Brutus when Burr is not present to witness it.”

Hamilton laughs and, for once, Thomas feels at ease with him.

**x**

“Does he truly do that?” John asks, brows raised curiously, humming when the others nod, “If that is the case, then I must admit he and his words must truly be powerful to convince the gods of such.”

“Technically,” Peggy says, shrugging, sipping on her orange juice, “The gods were desperate for Alexander’s counseling, said something about them being irrational,” she pauses, thinking, sipping continuously on her juice, “If you are to think about it, Alexander _is_ the most powerful being – of course, excluding the Fates – in the world if he can put the gods down to their knees and ignore their pride.”

“My Hercules and I have heard his poetry,” Lafayette says, situating himself atop Hercules’ lap, “It is truly addicting,” he slips an orange slice into Hercules’ mouth, “Hercules and I once begged him to tell us more of his poetry.”

“What’d he do?” John asks curiously.

“He avoided the palace for nearly two weeks,” Hercules replies, grinning at John’s shocked face.

“Yeah,” Peggy hums, “If he did not, Lafayette and Hercules would be desperate for his poetry even to this day.”

John’s mouth gapes. “Is it truly that beautiful?”

“If you heard it yourself, you would know,” Lafayette says, shrugging, “His poetry is a caress to the senses.”

“If my sisters were here, they would agree personally,” Peggy says, “They have heard his poetry as well. I have not. I am merely speaking in the experience of my sisters,” her arm reaches to refill her glass cup, “I am not sure I would want to. I have enough to be desperate of.”

John smirks, brows wiggling. “Like my sister’s reply to your letter?”

“Oh, will you shut your mouth on that?” Peggy scolds, cheeks reddening from embarrassment, “I am merely embarrassed that she has not even bothered to acknowledge my lengthy letter which I have spent nights writing on.”

“Give her time,” John offhandedly replies, “She truly is like that. She is shy at the beginning.”

“Who is shy at the beginning?” John perks up when he sees Alexander walk in the dining room, frowning when he notices a nameless man beside him, “John, you look beautiful.”

John brushes off the compliment, staring at the man. “Thank you,” he says, “Who is that?”

“Oh, this is Thomas,” Alexander says, taking a seat beside John, “He works with me.”

Thomas sends a smile to John’s way, forced. He takes a seat beside Lafayette and Hercules, brows raising teasingly at Lafayette – who only blushes and looks away bashfully. Peggy snorts and John feels as though he is missing something.

“Are you two lovers?” Thomas asks, taking a bite of his steak, pointing to him and Alexander.

John shakes his head, a blush already creeping on his cheeks. “No, we are not,” he says.

Thomas hums, squinting his eyes as he stares at John. “Oh, you are John Laurens,” he says, “Prince of South Carolina. I have met your father, by the way,” he snorts at John’s pained face, “Whom, I am not afraid to admit, is a classic jerk. There are times when he speaks that I want to stuff my shoe down his nose.”

John snorts, shaking his head. “I cannot blame you.”

“Daddy issues,” Peggy states, rolling her eyes, “Everyone here at this table has daddy issues.”

And, with that, conversation flows easily between them all, the words at ease and smooth as they eat their meals. John stares at Thomas curiously. He’s hiding something – the whole group, he assumes – and John just cannot figure what. He chews on his tiramisu, blinking as he studies Thomas with curious eyes. Alexander nudges him, offers him a smile and John feels all tension leave his body. He shakes his head, continues to eat but the feeling still remains.

**x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> james was the one ham, laf and herc were talking abt that the invisible servants have killed,,, i lov writing abt ham, burr and jefferson's friendship uwu theyre my brotp


	15. all the pretty stars shine for you, my love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander smiles, pressing a soft kiss on the tip of John’s nose – the action catches him off guard, his stance retreating. A warm blush dusts his cheeks and his stomach flutters unbearably.

_My dearest Patsy,_

_Only now has Polly written to me the news of your pregnancy and, my dearest sister, you do not know how much I wish to be there for you myself. Do know that I am the happiest for you. Have you thought of names for your child yet? In all my excitement for yourself, I am shameless to admit that I have. Perhaps you could name the child, if it were born a girl, after our own dear mother and, if it is born a boy, perhaps after our uncle. Forgive me – it seems my habit of straying in my own letters is unavoidable. I am, as well, elated to inform you that my dear friend, Margarita, – who has sent you her own letter and she begs of me to tell you that she is desperate for a response, do have mercy on poor Peggy, my sister – sends you her congratulations. I assume your husband is as happy as we are, if not, happier._

_Lafayette and Hercules – I am certain I have told you of them – as well are happy for you. And, if I were to tell Alexander, perhaps he, too, would have been. I only wish he would allow me to visit you there in South Carolina but, for fulfillment of my own selfish, desperate desire to embrace you and the life inside you, perhaps I shall ask him. I might even beg right on my knees – do not think, dear sister, that I have lost all scraps of my dignity. Trust me when I say I have not. I am merely desperate to see you all once more. Though, knowing Alexander, it only seems that it shall take numerous days of begging to convince him and, in all honesty, I do not think I am up for that. No matter the result of my pleading, do know, my dear sister, that I shall always be here for you the same way you are there for me. I adore you endlessly._

_I am afraid I must cut this letter short. I still have my own duties – though, they are not as tedious as they were back in South Carolina – to attend to here._

_I wish you the Fates’ good graces because, dear gods, you deserve it, my sweet Patsy._

_Your loving brother,_

_Jacky Laurens_

Patsy lets out a soft sigh, a soothing warmth spreading over her chest at her brother’s blatant enthusiasm and happiness of her pregnancy – she only wishes she shared it. She looks down her belly, disgust replacing warmth when she tries to imagine a bump filling out her dress, the life created by herself and her damned husband. Her body lets out shudders as she imagines her child growing up to be his father. _A monster._ She scowls, her thoughts leaving a poisonous trail in her mind. Her thumb absentmindedly traces the letter, grazing over each ink-stained words, wishing for her dear brother’s sweet embraces. She silently prays to the gods for Alexander to allow their Jacky to visit them in South Carolina, even if he only stays for just a moment. She knows she’ll be happy to accept whatever they’re willing to give, knows Polly and Harry would be too.

She walks over to her table, folding the letter neatly as she tucks it in a pile meant only for her brother’s letters – she treasures it too much. An unfolded letter catches her sight and she lets out a chuckle when she realizes who it is from – Margarita’s letter. She’s read it already and she cannot deny how fascinated she is to learn that Margarita is a nereid and, _oh_ , how much Patsy would have adored to learn more of their species if only she could muster the courage to do so. But, if she were ever to do so, that would mean risking the chance of being caught by her husband and she thinks she’d rather not. She purses her lips, looking down at the letter once more, chest tightening.

She gives in with a drawn-out sigh, shrugging as she plops down her chair, bringing out a new roll of parchment and ink, humming happily as she begins to write.

**x**

“Come back before dawn, Margarita. You have been spending an awful long time on Alexander’s island.”

Peggy nearly gags at the use of her full name but nods, lips pressed into a thin line. “Yes, father,” she grits out, “Do not worry – I am not doing anything sinister. I am merely enjoying myself. Truly. Honestly. Frankly. Re –”

“Alright, alright,” her father snaps, fondly rolling his eyes, “Enjoy your time there, my dear daughter.”

Peggy smiles, pressing a quick kiss on her father’s cheek. “I love you, father,” she says in a rush, the excitement of the prospect of walking on land once more sending her nerves into a flurry, waving enthusiastically at her mother and sisters, “I love you all! I swear I shall be back soon!”

She quickly swims through the sea, blood pumping as she does so. She’s been retreating from her kingdom far more than she should have but, luckily for her, seeing as her position in the sea does not require much, her parents allow her to walk on land as much as she desires so, unlike Angelica – who is the heir to the throne – and Eliza – who is their representative diplomat to kingdoms far and wide. She’s the youngest, much to her benefit _and_ chagrin. She has to fight her way to get her parents’ lacking attention and she knows they’re busy enough handling their own kingdom but, at times, she wishes she were enough for them to deem worthy of their attention – if Angelica and Eliza are, why isn’t she? She shakes her head, willing the thoughts to fade away. Once she reaches the shore, she swiftly turns herself much more humanlike, tails fading into legs. She stands upright, legs shaking underneath the surging force of the ocean and the locking hold of the sand. She takes forceful steps until she walks on the sand, toes wiggling, the sand grains sticking in between them. Peggy absolutely adores the feeling of the sand against her bare feet, makes her feel closer to the beautiful Gaia.

“Dear Poseidon, how I have missed the land,” she breathes out, eyes twinkling. She walks the familiar way to their beloved cottage, her body laid out bare for the world to see – she isn’t ashamed. Why should she be? Though her body isn’t as open to sexual advances as such the goddess Aphrodite is, she, as well, isn’t as chaste as the goddess Artemis is. To be ashamed of her own flesh, raw and beautiful, that is merely stupid in her own mind. She shrugs, her steps forceful. Once she catches sight of the cottage, she releases a sigh of relief, walking in eager steps to the door. She opens it and pleasantly notices a new stack of letter upon the desk, herself giddy with excitement.

_Another letter from Martha._

She wraps a discarded blue robe – Eliza’s, she assumed, judging from the color – and walks to the desk, taking the letter in her hands and unwrapping it, heart fluttering in excitement. It has only been a few days since Martha – she has decided to call the infamous Patsy by Martha, to her, it only seems fair as Martha was convinced on calling her Margarita – and yet letters exchanged between them only seemed non-stop. If she were being honest, Martha and her letters are the sole reason for her daily visitations on Alexander’s island. She hums excitedly, making a curious sound when she realizes John is not in the cottage. _Huh_ , she muses in her head, _he seems to never be here._

_Dear Margarita,_

_I have only received your letter, hence the later reply. Do not think I shying away from you once more – I have gotten over that silly phase. Do not worry, you pretty thing._

_I want to tell your parents that they are missing out absolutely wonderful company! From first-hand experience, I, too, can relate to your frustrations but, I must say to you, do not let them get the best of you. They are not worth neither your tears nor your time if they cannot even spare you a glance. You know you are worth more than that. This may seem too far-fetched but, in the few days of knowing you, I feel as though I have known for the entirety of my life. I only regret not writing to you sooner. You are wonderful, too much, perhaps._

_Though, and as I write this, I am only hoping I can entrust you with this secret which I have not even told my own siblings, I ache to write my thoughts down. I shall admit blatantly and without further delays – I do not desire to be a mother. I do not want to make mistakes that my own parents have made in their days and merely wishing for that does not guarantee it. I know subconsciously you may mirror the actions of your parents and that is not a risk I am willing to take._

_I do not want to ruin my child’s life with my own foolishness, Margarita. I wish for everything but._

_The mere thought of tainting a pure, unsolicited life into this world pains myself. I am shamed to admit that I am scared._

_I am scared, my Margarita, truly scared. More than I can bear to say._

_Forgive me and the dried tears that stain this letter. I merely hope you tell none of this, Margarita. I shall put my trust in you and I hope you shall not put it into waste._

_Remember you are enough, dearest girl._

_Yours,_

_Martha Laurens R_

Peggy releases a breath, shuddering and shaky.

She is quick to wipe away the unshed tears that mirrors through her eyes, threatening to streak down her cheeks. She swallows, walking to John’s room to grab herself a handful of parchment, quills and ink. She plops down on John’s chair, fingers in nimble movements as she drafts her letter to Martha, nearly knocking out the bottle of ink from her mere excitement –

 _…you are enough, dearest girl,_ and perhaps, though Peggy is still reluctant to admit this, fondness. She chuckles, lips widened to a smile as she writes over the parchment.

_Dear Martha,_

_I am glad you are no longer shy. It has pained me to know that you refused to respond to my earlier letters. But, alas, I shall not tease you any further, beautiful._

_I myself am blushing from your sweet words, too sweet, I must say. My company is not as wondrous as you make it seem but I do appreciate your seeming genuine opinion of me. It is quite adorable and fulfilling to know that there is someone in this damned world who appreciates my whole being when I cannot even bring myself to do so. You are too sweet, Martha Laurens, and I cannot get enough of it. I shall let your words anchor my own actions, sweet Martha._

_Do not worry. You can trust me. I shall not do anything that shall question your well-placed trust. Truly, I do appreciate your trust of myself – it seems my own sisters cannot do that. They doubt my capabilities, says that I am merely too young. I think that is, forgive me for my crude wording, utter bullshit. If that were true and age matched with one’s capabilities, then, Zeus wouldn’t have slayed his father as Uranus did his own father, would he have?_

_I have read over your concern of your own capabilities, Martha, and it pains me to do so. By the mere fact that you are aware of the problems in your family and the fact that they might have instilled them into you, I know you shall turn out better than you yourself expect. You are not afraid to admit and accept what you could be and I think that is impressing of you. Not many are willing to admit their own – and upcoming – mistakes and it takes great courage to do that._

_I shall not tell you how to feel, dear Martha. If you are scared, then I can only try to soothe your worries. As you said yourself to me, do not let those worries overcome the best of you. The future is uncertain and so are we – the best we can do is live our lives, no matter the cliché of this saying. Promise you shall not waste your life trying to figure out what happens next. Promise me that you shall bask in the sweet moments of life and get through the harsh ones. Promise me, sweet Martha, because you and I both need it._

_To worry what the future brings, that is what the Fates are meant to do. To live and laugh, that is what we are meant to do._

_From your words alone and John’s tales of you, I am certain you will make a great mother, Martha. Do not worry yet of what you could be, Martha, but on what you are because, right now, that is what’s important._

_Ever yours,_

_Margarita ‘Peggy’ S._

**x**

“Alexander, you have arrived!”

John hops off the swinging chair and excitedly walks to Alexander, a bright but hesitant smile on his face. Alexander greets him with his own smile, dull but genuine, walking into the palace, his shoulders slumping.

“Are you alright?” John asks, concern taking over him when he notices Alexander’s mere lack of energy in both his movements and words, “You seem tired,” he says, visibly deflating, scooting away from Alexander in a cautious attempt to not further irritate the seeming exhausted man, “Perhaps I should let you rest first. I do not want to tire you further.”

Alexander brushes him off, shaking his head. “No, it is alright, John,” he says, stretching, “I am always like this, anyways. It is nothing new but, yes, do speak of whatever it is you were to say. Do not let me distract you.”

John nods, leading them both to a velvet sofa. “Yes, I just wanted to ask you, uh,” he stops short, licking over his lips nervously as Alexander drapes himself over the sofa, letting out a sigh and John feels reluctant to break the sated air around Alexander with his own request of returning to his kingdom and, so, he asks the question that first comes in his mind, clearing his throat as he attempts to structure a coherent sentence in his mind, “I just wanted to ask if there is anything else for me to do in this island?” at Alexander’s confused gaze, John is quick to elaborate, “I truly am grateful of everything else you have done for me, Alexander, and I am not trying to revoke my gratitude with those words. It’s just… Back in my kingdom, I always had duties to attend to – whether it is attending to the rebels or the village or the nobles – and it only seems I myself am getting restless with nothing to do. I have tried to join Lafayette and Hercules during their patrols but…” he sighs, hands twitching, “…I feel useless, Alexander.”

Alexander sits up with such speed that John almost flinches back, alarmed. “Why?”

John plays with his sleeves. “Well,” he starts, clearing his throat, “Back in South Carolina, I had my own duties to attend to and no one else could fulfill those duties except myself. Now, I merely stall along the cottage and the palace and I am certain that I have explored the entirety of this island. I am not needed here and I feel as if I am only hindering you all,” when Alexander opens his mouth to speak his protests of John’s statements, John only raises his finger, indicating that he is not done yet, “It would please me as much if you could give me something to do – perhaps I could write letters for you?” his own cheeks redden, only now realizing the stupidity of his statement, “Oh, I am sorry. I sometimes forget you are Alexander ‘The Poet’ who moves souls with his own words – and, by some feat, has managed to convince the gods to think for a bare second. You truly are amazing, Alexander, and I do not mean any –”

“John,” Alexander says, eyes crinkling as he tries to hold back a laugh, “Calm your soul. I am not offended and you have done nothing wrong. Nothing to fret over except –” John bites his lips nervously, “– for the fact that we have been spending too much time together. My tendency of rambling seems to have rubbed off you.”

John giggles, smiling fondly. “Do not worry,” he says, “I have always had a tendency to ramble, even in my own letters – it only seems to be something we share in common. We may spend more time together.”

Alexander’s eyes twinkle. “Is that so?” he leans closer, breath ghosting over John’s.

“Yes,” John answers easily, bluntly, “Why do you ask?”

Alexander sits up straight, back in a stiff posture, as he scans over John, smirking. “I have a proposition,” he says, tone all businesslike, “Perhaps you could aid me in writing my letters?” John’s mouth falls open in shock and Alexander’s chest warms with fondness, “With the burdening duty of aiding the gods themselves, perhaps a glorious prince like you would be interested in aiding myself?” he says, taking John’s hand and pressing a kiss against his knuckles, smiling when John laughs.

“Perhaps,” John says, mimicking his formal tone, “But would a prodigious poet such as yourself would need my help? I certainly am no Orpheus in my writing.”

Alexander lets out an offended huff. “Of course, I would need your help,” he says, sitting up straight once more, holding on to John’s hand, sending an unrelated warmth coursing through him, “Do not ever doubt your abilities, John. I have seen them myself and I am not afraid to admit that you are amazing in what you do, especially your diplomacy.”

John laughs, a full, blown-out laughter that echoes throughout the palace. “Alexander,” he says between his laughs, wiping away the tears from the corner of his eyes, “You do know that I have punched the king of France once out of sole frustration?”

Alexander smiles, toothy. “Alright, perhaps you are not the most patient soul,” he says, affectionately bopping the tip of John’s nose, “But that does not erase your skill. Face-to-face, you are not the greatest. Though, letter to letter, you are incredible. You have your own, unique way with words, Laurens.”

“Only seems so if someone like you admits such things,” John says, cockily smiling and shrugging easily. Alexander rolls his eyes, pinching John’s nose, huffing in amusement at the childlike whine John releases. His hands retreat to his sides as he stands up, looking at John expectantly.

“Do you not want to see what I am asking of you to do?” he says. John immediately rises to his feet and walks by Alexander’s side, steps eager. “Oh and, I must admit, your taste in gowns are much definitely better than mine,” he indicates to the loose, emerald dress on John, “You look amazing on emerald,” _his color,_ he notes fondly.

“Ah, ah,” John says, tutting, “None like that. I am only wearing this dress because I must.”

Alexander smiles, sighing. “I know and I shall never force you to wear those hideous frocks once more.”

“You better not,” John jokes, pinching Alexander’s shoulder. Alexander smiles, pressing a soft kiss on the tip of John’s nose – the action catches him off guard, his stance retreating. A warm blush dusts his cheeks and his stomach flutters unbearably. He clears his throat and Alexander does too, both scooting away from each other. They, much to both their relief, reach Alexander’s bedroom in mere seconds and Alexander leads John in, nervously smiling.

“Do you wonder why I have such a large pile of letters onto my desk?” Alexander points to the mountainous pile of letters stacked upon his desk. John nods, walking in, breathing in the soothing scent of ink and almond. “Have you ever heard of Publius?” Alexander’s eyes sparkle when John gasps, a clear indication of his answer, “That is right, Laurens – I am Publius. I am the one who convinced the king of England to let the colonies go. I am the one who built America’s financial system, to which the thirteen colonies heavily depend on. _I_ am Publius,” he smiles cheekily, dropping the dramatic tone as he faces John excitedly, “Dear gods, that sounded like directly out of a theatre’s play. What do you say, John?”

“I…” John is breathless for any words, “… _you_ are _Publius_?”

Alexander’s brows furrow. “Have I not established that, John?”

“Uh, no, no, you have,” John’s words comes out as a garbled mess of stringed sentences, stuttering over his own words, “I just… I am not sure if I could live up to your level. The way you string words effortlessly and structure your sentences like palaces – I… Alexander, I am not –”

“John,” he places his hands on both John’s shoulders, “Did I not tell you to not doubt your own abilities?” he says, shaking his head, “Besides, do you not trust me? I have chosen you myself,” when he sees John’s face fall in uncertainty, he sighs and tries another tactic, “Did you not tell me moments ago that you longed for duties that only _you_ can fulfill as to not feel so useless in the island? Well, dear John, here it is.”

A desperate, little noise escapes from the back of his throat. “I just… I feel as though I am worthy of such position,” his gaze drops down to the floor, lips quivering, “What if –”

“John,” Alexander calls out gently, soothing, “You are. Do not doubt yourself.”

John sucks in a breath, eyes shining, tongue running over his lips as he looks up to meet Alexander’s eager gaze. “Alright,” he breathes out. Alexander’s heart pumps in excitement, nearly bouncing on his own toes.

“Alright?”

John nods. “Alright.”

Alexander smiles, blindingly bright, pulling John into an embrace. John’s body stiffens, at first, before he melts away into the touch, leaning against Alexander’s calming warmth, a smile on his lips, eyes fluttering close.

**x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone has daddy/mommy/sibling issues im sorry thats just me projecting


	16. in these stolen moments, the world is mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John laughs, thanking the gods above for giving his dear friend a reason to thread poetry between her lips and shine stars in her eyes, a selfish part of him wishing he had one for himself.

“I am one moment away from losing my damned mind.”

Alexander slumps against his chair, wiping the sweat from his forehead, a sigh tumbling from his lips. “As I,” he resists the urge to roll his eyes in annoyance once he steals a glance at the gods’ vacated thrones, brows furrowed as he stares at Jefferson’s hunched figure, “Jefferson, you did not have to face this fate, you were not compelled to,” he says, eyes scrutinizing, “What has Burr done to convince you to do so?”

“I have not done anything sinister as your tone rudely suggests, Hamilton,” Burr snaps, glaring, “I was not that desperate.”

“Could have fooled me,” Alexander retorts, scoffing, “You alone trying to counsel the gods is comparable to colorless clouds trying to conceal Apollo’s rays,” he and Jefferson share a smirk, snickering to themselves, “Those without color cannot guide those who are full of it.”

“Oh, damn you both to Tartarus,” Burr mutters, glaring daggers at them both.

“How wise of Hamilton,” Jefferson says, ignoring Burr’s petty attempts to curse them both, “However, Burr truly did none despicable to convince me,” he pauses, finger raised in the air, his face contemplating, “In frank words, he did not even need to convince me.”

Alexander’s eyes widen at Jefferson’s response, mind curious. “Really?” he says, huffing, “I have always thought your greatest desire was to distance yourself from your father yet you have chosen the duty that brings the closest to him,” he hums, “Why so?”

Jefferson looks at them, face expressive – tragic poetries painted in the flicking glimmer of his eyes, unsung Orphean melodies at the pink of his lips and soundless words at the top of his lungs. Alexander shares a look with Burr, conversing with their eyes. Tension hangs in the air, heavy and thick.

“Oh,” Alexander responds dumbly, wordlessly urging Burr to change the topic of their conversation.

“Would you both like a drink?” Burr asks, shrugging as he drapes his coat over himself, standing from his chair, “It only seems we need it – perhaps too much. My treat.”

Jefferson nods and hums, approving. “Truly,” he says, “Where do you propose we shall go?”

“How about the new tavern in Constantinople?” he suggests, standing from his chair, “I have heard their god, Bacchus, has blessed it himself.”

Burr nods. Jefferson smirks.

“Let us go then, shall we?”

**x**

“My gods, would you look at her?”

She ignores the chatter between the townspeople and continues to walk with her head held up high, long, luscious hair twisted into a braid flowing with the wind. She walks in the tavern, breathing in the aroma of wine. Her eyes squint into a heated glare as she passes through the rowdy crowd of men, hands clenching into fists when whistles echo through the tavern. She shamelessly raises her middle finger at them, smirking when their whistling comes to a sudden halt, shocked at her blatant display of gracelessness. She snorts – _why do they enjoy subjecting women into their own expectations as if women aren’t whole beings with minds_ – and walks to the table, sitting on the chairs, hand hitting on the table for the bartender’s attention.

“Maria!” she raises a brow as she turns to face whoever called her, eyes widening at the sight of Alexander – a forgotten lover from the past, “What are you doing in such a place like this?”

She walks to their table, setting herself down beside Alexander. “I needed to forget,” her eyes rake over his companions – Thomas and Aaron, she notes, “Though, it seems to me as if we all do.”

“Correct you are, Lewis,” Thomas says, words slurred, chugging the last dregs of his drink, whooping into the air, “What did you need to forget to go to a tavern like this? I always thought Aphrodite’s daughter wanted – no, needed – the best of the best.”

“Oh, and that is rich coming from you – the son of –”

Thomas raises a finger, tutting. “I do not want to hear his damned name come out of your mouth,” he slurs out, refilling his cup, “I have enough to deal with.”

“Don’t we all?” says Alexander, handing Maria her own cup, to which she responds with a grateful hum, “How are you, miss Lewis? I have not heard from you for the longest time.”

“Well, let me just tell you,” she says, taking a swing of her wine, “I am one second away from storming in the Underworld and kicking the Fates’ all together. I am so tired of everything they throw my way – already I was born a woman. Is that not enough?”

“Dear gods, Lewis, who ruffled your feathers?” Burr says for the first time, shaking his head.

“You’ve got no room to talk, Burr,” she quips, smirking, “At least, I let people ruffle my feathers.”

She high-fives Jefferson and Hamilton, snickering at Burr’s defeated groans.

“Why do you three enjoy insulting me?” he says, snorting, taking a cautious sip of his drink, “It must have become some past-time hobby by now.”

“Oh, do not blame us so, Burr,” Jefferson slurs out, drunken, “You are just so easy to insult. Perhaps you make it too easy,” he laughs to himself, pointing clumsily at Burr, barely making out the scowl on his face under the dim lights, “I am certain I can do it with myself asleep. Insulting you is, perhaps, my favorite hobby.”

“Only because you have no life other than staring at yourself in the mirror, Jefferson,” he sneers, smirking at Jefferson’s heating cheeks. Alexander and Maria share a look, wheezing.

“Oh, speak for yourself,” he says, humor fading away from his voice, his scowl mirroring Burr's.

Maria rolls her eyes in amusement, drowning in the last dregs of her drink. She lets herself loose for once, lets herself forget what society expect of her, lets herself free from the choking hold of her mother, lets herself _live._ Under the gleaming lights of the tavern and the drunken, noisy trio that surrounds her, she lets herself live.

**x**

“Your sister has grown to become a dear friend of mine, John.”

John smiles in affection, leaning down to ruffle Peggy’s mane. “Good for you, Peggy,” he says earnestly, putting his feet up the table, yawning, pouting when he notices no signs of the door opening and marking the arrival of a certain someone he has been waiting for far longer than he would like to admit, “My sister is not easy to befriend. At first, she is cold and uncaring and, once you have managed to get through her walls, she is sweet and teasing. Dear gods, do I miss her,” he pauses, a wistful look on his face, “Imagine, Peggy, my sister is to have a child. I am so excited for her.”

“So am I,” Peggy says, head on John’s lap, tone distracted, “I wish my father would allow me to travel to South Carolina. I want to see her for myself.”

John leans back, letting out a defeated sigh. “So do I.”

“Why won’t you ask Alexander?” Peggy asks, tracing patterns on John’s stomach, “I mean, I am sure he would let you. It is your sister, after all, and she is with child. He is not heartless.”

“I know,” John says, frowning, “But I fear we have not reached that point of trust as of yet,” he pauses, sighing, “I am certain he would think I would run away.”

Peggy hums, thoughtful. “Would you?”

John glances back uneasily, his gaze unsure. An unspoken _yes_ is said in the air but neither of them say anything about it. They fidget through the silence.

Peggy clears her throat, sitting up. “You and Alexander have spent countless hours with each other, every time in his room to do your so-called duty,” her tone is teasing and John can feel a blush dusting his cheeks as she continues to speak, words bordering suggestive, “I am sure that has built trust between you two.”

“Yes, it certainly has,” John’s lips tug into a smile as he reminisces the endless nights he has spent with Alexander, words flowing out of him too easily and thoughts at a calm pace as he listens to Alexander weave palaces out of words, hands stained with ink and fingers throbbing with unnoticed cramps, “But I do not trust myself to make the most rational decisions when it involves my family – I adore them too much to think properly. I do miss them but I do not want to breach his trust over that. Though I cannot hold my siblings in my arms here, I am satisfied with what I have – you and your sisters, Lafayette and Hercules, and, though I would never admit this to his face, Alexander,” he lets out a breathy sigh, smiling, “He has grown on me.”

“You both still have no intention of becoming lovers?” Peggy coos at John’s flushed cheeks, “You both seem close, closer than any of us if I am being honest.”

“Friends, that is what we agreed on.”

She smiles, teasing. “But that does not mean that is what you two will end up as.”

“I do not really care,” he says – not exactly a _no_ or _yes_ , “Alexander is good company – he broadens my perspective of the world. I do not want to change our dynamic merely to kiss or whatever it is lovers ache to do so. What Alexander and I have at this very moment encompasses our intentions of becoming lovers or enemies or what else of,” he smiles, staring at Peggy, “I think I am satisfied with being friends. I would prefer a friendship over than a relationship,” he sighs, “Everything with Aphrodite complicates all.”

“Ah, but there is one element that is not present in friendship,” Peggy says, eyes dreamy, “The passion.”

John looks at her, confused. “Whatever do you mean?” he asks, “I am sure there is passion between friends –”

Peggy sends him a pointed look, rolling her eyes. “Not that passion,” she says, letting out a sigh, daydreams upon her face and colorless roses on her lips, lashes fluttering as she lets herself drown in silence for one moment, taking a deep breath, “There is this unspeakable passion between lovers. It is unmistakable. It is unmissable,” she blinks, herself in too deep in her thoughts to notice John’s curious glances, “It makes you feel crazed, makes you want to devour the whole world in your hands, makes you want to swim across a thousand oceans merely to feel your lover’s lips against your very own, makes you want to live a million lifetimes only to feel their arms around you,” she releases a breath, quivering, “That is Aphrodite’s gift.”

“Are you alright, Peggy?” he asks, wiping away the tears that has fallen on her cheeks, “What you said was beautiful.”

Peggy sniffs, messily wiping away her tears with her sleeves. “Forgive me about that,” she leans her head on John’s shoulders when John puts an arm around her, pulling her close, breath shuddering, “It seems to me I have been too caught in my emotions.”

“It was beautiful,” he repeats because it truly was, “Who have you fallen for to make feel such things?” he smiles, “To swim a thousand oceans, dear me, I am sure that is not so easy.”

Peggy smiles, pushing John away, rolling her eyes. “Stop teasing, John,” she says, “Whomever it is I have fallen for is none of your business!”

John pouts. “But I want to know!”

“And I do not want to tell!”

John laughs, thanking the gods above for giving his dear friend a reason to thread poetry between her lips and shine stars in her eyes, a selfish part of him wishing he had one for himself.

**x**

“Goodbye, Maria!”

Aaron rolls his eyes as he watches his drunken companions shout their farewells at the top of their lungs. He follows them out the tavern, waving at Maria’s retreating figure before he turns to Jefferson and Hamilton, hands on his hips. “Thomas, Alexander,” he says in a pointed tone, “How many drinks did you two have? Did I not tell you both to hold your liquor?”

“You – not – father –” Jefferson manages before he doubles over, clutching his stomach as he throws up on the floor. Aaron winces, putting a safe distance between himself and Jefferson, nose crinkling at the sickening stench.

Hamilton, the more sober of the two, pats Jefferson’s back, a sympathetic smile on his face. “That is alright, Jefferson – go on, let it out,” oddly, Hamilton is the kindest when he is drunk, Aaron notes as he observes Hamilton with squinted eyes, “That’s it, Jefferson. Let it all out. It will all be alright in the end,” he looks at Burr, frantically waving, “Do you need to let it all out as well, Aaron?”

 _Most annoying as well,_ he thinks dryly, shaking his head.

“Alright, suit yourself,” and he continues to pat Jefferson’s back. Aaron only rolls his eyes.

Once Jefferson releases all the contents of his stomach, Aaron approaches them, foot tapping impatiently on the floor. “Now that you both have let it all out,” he says, air quoting, “Perhaps we shall enter our carriages? There is only one that I see.”

Jefferson nods and Hamilton shrugs. Aaron lets out a sigh, feeling as though he were dealing with children – which is, as well, likely. Hamilton and Jefferson are nothing but overgrown children trapped in this fateful life. He rolls his eyes, shaking his head, leading them both to the carriage before he forces them in with an irritated groan. He’s the last to go in, shutting the carriage’s miniature door close, leaning down his seat, head throbbing with pain.

“Hey, y’all,” Jefferson slurs out, giggling madly to himself and Aaron doesn’t bother to hide his irritating through his palming of his face, “I’ve got a ball. Hosting it. ‘Vite your sexy friends.”

He rolls his eyes at Jefferson’s words.

“Will do,” Hamilton answers, looking out at the sky through the window, whistling, “D’you have a sexy friend, Thomas?”

 _Dear Zeus,_ Aaron thinks in his head, _this must be the peak of drunkenness for both of them._

“Had a sexy friend before,” Thomas sniffles, pouting, “Then, he died and left me all alone.”

An uneasy silence settles over the air and Aaron feels a pang of sympathy for Jefferson – despite his pompous attitude, Aaron cannot even fathom to imagine losing the one you cherished most. He swallows, smiling at Jefferson – which he hopes to be is sympathizing. Jefferson ignores his and Hamilton’s attempts to comfort him and merely shrugs, eyes fluttering close.

“Jefferson,” Aaron says when he feels the carriage land, “Jefferson, do not sleep. We have already arrived at your house.”

Jefferson’s eyes shoot open and he staggers out the carriage, stumbling in his steps. Aaron’s eyes are stuck on Jefferson’s fading shadow, chest heaving with a sigh as he feels the carriage mount up once more. Much to his surprise, Hamilton nearly stays quiet throughout the whole ride, eyes in a trance.

“Hamilton, are you quite alright?”

“It was my fault, Aaron,” Hamilton whispers, vulnerable, his words neither slurred nor clumsy, “If they hadn’t gone to the island, he wouldn’t’ve lost his Madison,” he looks at Aaron, “His eyes, Burr. They haunt me every night.”

Aaron stays silent, eyes flickering to gaze at Hamilton, clueless on what to do with that. He fidgets with his hands, staring at Hamilton, gaze questioning. One moment of silence and Burr gathers the courage to speak his words but, before he can even attempt to, the carriage comes to a halt, landing with a dull thud. Hamilton looks out and huffs, preparing to stand up.

“This is my stop,” he says, walking out the carriage, “Good day, Burr.”

The carriage takes off and all Aaron can think of is James Madison.

**x**

“Alexander!”

John nearly bounces off the couch and excitedly walks to Alexander, buzzing in each step he takes, lips spreading in a wild smile. “Hey, are you alright?” he asks, smile fading once he realizes the state Alexander is in – teary eyes, slumped shoulders, puffed nose, “Have you been crying? What’s wrong, Alex? You can tell me and –”

Alexander lets out a broken sob, falling into John’s arms, gripping on John’s shirt. John nearly staggers but wills himself to stand upright, wrapping his arms around Alexander, rubbing his back in soothing circles, whispering to him sweet words.

“Shh, it’s alright, Alexander,” he says, resting Alexander’s head on his chest, “It’s alright.”

Alexander’s cries echo out through the palace and John holds him close, steadies him on the ground to remind him he’s not alone, to remind him that _he’s_ here – always. He wants to know what caused Alexander to plummet into this state – so vulnerable, so unlike the Alexander that he has gotten so used to – but he refrains himself from doing so, bites his tongue and rubs Alexander’s back in continous circles instead. He holds Alexander in his arms for countless moments until he hears the sobbing fade away into mere sniffling. He pulls away slightly, gazing at Alexander, concern written all over his face.

“What happened?” he asks, rubbing Alexander’s arms, “Do you want to sit?”

Alexander doesn’t answer him – doesn’t think he has the energy to – and, instead, leads John and himself to the balcony of his bedroom, ignoring John’s hurried questions. He gazes at the stars and leans against the railing. John follows the suit easily, leaning closer to Alexander. “Do you want to talk about?” he asks Alexander, gentle and soft.

“Do you remember the invisible servants?” Alexander says, “The reason why you must wear a dress in the palace?”

John hums, nodding. “I do,” he answers, “What about them?”

“Do you remember what Lafayette and Hercules has told you upon your arrival?” he says, “That the servants have killed?”

John nods, still unsure of the direction of the conversation.

“Do you know who they killed?”

John shakes his head, slow. The prompting, the edging, the stalling – those aren’t any like to Alexander. If Alexander is to speak, he shall do so without any restraint, merely stating things the way that they are, without rose-tinted glasses over his eyes. He looks at Alexander – whose gaze is fixed on the sky above – and tilts his head in confusion.

“James Madison,” he breathes out, his voice shaking, eyes shining with unsaid words, “They went into the palace to visit me and pay their condolences. It was the passing of my mother,” John barely stifles his gasp, briefly recalling his mother’s tales of Alexander – _only when his mother passed, he had agreed to counsel the gods and, in turn for that, the gods have turned him ageless_ , “I should have known,” Alexander laughs but it’s humorless, “I should have known there was some cruel trick in all of this. I should have known there was a price to pay,” he pauses, gulping, eyes glassing with unshed tears, “With the gods, there is always a price to pay. Thomas paid his.”

John’s brows shoot up at the mention of the name. “Thomas? The one who ate with us one time?”

Alexander nods, a tentative arm wrapping around John’s middle, running his hand over John’s sides as he buries his head on the crook of John’s neck. “Thomas is the son of Zeus and great things were meant for him,” he starts, breathing in John’s familiar, soothing scent, “But his birth mother disagreed, refused to raise Thomas any where near Olympus. She moved to the colonies – Virginia, I think – and raised him there in her own little farm. That’s where he had met James,” he smiles, “Their love for each other was, perhaps, the purest thing to ever grace Gaia. Every time Thomas talks of James, I feel as though my heart shredding into pieces with every word,” he shakes his head, looking up to gaze at the sky once more, “They loved each other very much, John,” his arm grasps John’s waist, bringing the latter closer to him to whisper, “…did you know James had died the very same day Thomas had proposed? Cruel of the Fates, isn’t it?”

Meanwhile, as Alexander sprouted words endlessly, John felt as though he were drowning in each of them. He clears his dry throat and tries to answer in coherent words. “Truly,” he answers, breathless, berating himself for his lack of words. But his mind is blank and it only swirls around Alexander and his words, unable to help himself or anyone else. He waits for Alexander to speak again, nearly begs. Something… something about Alexander was making John itch, throb, ache. He does not know what but he wants to scratch himself until he’s chased the feeling away.

“If only I had arrived in time with the carriage then, perhaps, James would still be here,” Alexander says, “I am furious with the gods. They are selfish and cruel and childish – everything they do is mostly out of spite and childish retaliation,” he pauses, blinking, “But I cannot deny the beauty they create.”

“What beauty is that?” he looks up and stares at Alexander, feels himself taken aback by the intensity of Alexander’s vivid eyes.

“The world around us,” he says, sighing, “The flowers, the fields, the forests. The seasons, the hurricanes, the floods. The people, the kingdoms, the empires,” he looks down at John, “You.”

John’s eyes widen, blushing at Alexander’s words, nearly scooting away in mere shock. He takes a few moments to compose himself. “Me?” he asks in a strained voice.

“Yes, you,” he says then clears his throat, as if only realizing the weight of his words, “And Lafayette and Hercules and the sisters,” he scratches the back of his neck, an awkward chuckle drawing out of him, “I am, perhaps, the luckiest man alive to have friends as such you,” he shakes his head, chuckling, “Thank you for staying, Jack.”

John feels warmth spread in his chest at the nickname – he's grown used to hearing – and, as he attempts to speak, as always, Alexander cuts him to it.

“I am sorry,” Alexander says, rushed and panicked, “I shouldn’t’ve called you that.”

“It’s alright, Alexander,” John soothes, slow and gentle, “You may call me that. There is no harm in it.”

He thinks of his siblings, things of Patsy and her unborn child and aches to ask him if Alexander would let him visit South Carolina. He nearly does but he keeps his mouth shut, trapping the words down his throat. He shakes his head, tells himself it’s not the time.

 _If now is not the time, when will it be?_ John ignores the voice in his head and basks in the warmth of Alexander.

“Alexander,” he says, “I have responded to all the letters so you do not need to worry about that.”

“I know you did, John,” Alexander gazes down at him, sends him a smile – too sweet, too affectionate, too _much_ to be simply friendly, “I did tell you that you must not doubt your own capabilities.”

“And, thanks to you, I no longer do,” he teases, smiling, the tense air disappearing around them, “However, the king of England is testing my patience – which, I must be honest, is not a lot. Why did you never tell me that monarchs were stupid in their own right?” Alexander laughs and John, for one moment, for _this_ moment, thinks he could get lost in the sound, thinks he could spend an eternity listening to him, “It is true! It feels as though I am the one doing the thinking for them!”

Alexander lets out a laugh, loud and lively. “Welcome to my world, Laurens.”

John snorts. “It is a difficult world you live in, Alexander,” he jokes, “I exhaust myself merely by thinking. What more if I shall do it for those with their own kingdoms?”

Alexander scoffs, yawning. “I have been drinking all night, John, and I feel quite lightheaded,” Alexander’s arm fall back to his side and John has to bite back a series of unprompted protests, “Perhaps, I shall let myself rest. I feel a headache coming and I’d rather sleep through it,” he stretches, walking to back inside his room, “You may stay here longer if you like.”

John lets out a hum, nodding. He props his elbows on the railing, staring at Uranus, wondering how heavy the world is in Atlas’ arms. He turns to walk out the balcony and into Alexander’s room, only to be met with the sight of a sleeping Alexander slumped on his bed. John smiles and drapes a blanket over him before he walks to the door, stealing one last glance. He shakes his head.

_Too heavy._

**x**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hurt/comfort always hits different


End file.
